The Shoaling Sea
by elsa3beth
Summary: Hornblower is kidnapped and Bush picks up the pieces. bookverse, Hotspur era, but can be enjoyed if you've seen 'Loyalty' or 'Duty'. Most is written as friendship fic, but this does turn into slash, Bush/Hornblower
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Shoaling Sea

**Summary:** Hornblower is kidnapped and Bush picks up the pieces. A rather cliche hurt/comfort premise I know, but I try I've tried to keep it era appropriate and realistic

**Characters:** Bush/Hornblower (slow developing slash), Cornwallis, Doughty, Cargill . . .

**Rating:** ranges from PG to R, mostly PG13

**Era:** Hornblower and the Hotspur (bookverse), can be enjoyed if you've seen Loyalty and Duty (just pretend Cornwallis is Pellew, and Cargill is Orrock :D)

Author's note: This story is not yet finished, but only has a few (3-ish?) chapters to go. I've reached a small impasse, however, and thought posting it here in addition to its livejournal home might encourage me to continue faster XD

**Part I **(4400 words)

_In Hornblower and the Hotspur, Hornblower and his crew prevent a French invasion of Ireland by catching the fleet of troop-hauling convoy ships unawares near the mouth of the Goulet. We begin this story just after that victory. Hornblower has spent the last week pushing himself through sleepless nights to stand watch, for he could trust the navigation of these dangerous shoals to no other at night and in the fog._

The battle was over. The Ireland invasion fleet had been alternately destroyed or turned back, and their chasing frigate had been caught in the shoals.

It had been with relief that Hornblower listened to division reports detailing the damage to his ship, its men, and its stores, despite the losses. Grief would come later. For now it was relief indeed knowing that he had not failed in his duty—even if it was a duty that the squadron captain, Chambers, had not acknowledged as necessary. Hornblower knew better. The actions of the _Hotspur_, his decision to risk life and ship to patrol the Goulet, had prevented a French invasion of Ireland. His actions had been for the good of the service; the good of the war. Prize money or no, his men could be proud of their work this day, and all the trolling nights before. And now that the action was past, Hornblower could marvel at the industry of his men. For it seemed like only an hour had passed, but the worst of the ship repairs were already completed. The foremast had been braced with an extra spar, the two shot holes below the water line were patched with a sail on the outside, and the men had been organized into regular shifts on the pumps. He had been so intent on the minutia of reports and instructions that he had paid scant attention to the work of his officers. And now all was done. They should be commended for their efforts.

Yet this intense relief, which had come upon him like a gale as soon as they'd seen the frigate catch at her bottom, was a temporary emotion, he knew.

Indeed, as half his mind followed the surgeon's report—two men dead, three wounded, and one of those likely to die—he could feel his relief ebbing away, supplanted by something more physical. Fatigue. And Cold. He was bone weary. He had gotten only two hours of sleep before the fighting, and before that . . . he had been sustaining himself with only snatches of naps for the past week, his worry and sense of duty not allowing him to trust the navigation of these shoals to anyone else. His body ached and stooped and shivered. He was becoming increasingly aware of the effort it required just to keep his back erect and hold his legs steady beneath him. And it was not merely his body that ached, for at least _it_ had enjoyed the occasional respite—an hour here and there. His mind, however, had been restless even in sleep, and the strain of his worry and mental calculations had left him with a permanent headache.

He felt he should be dumb and witless now, and part of him worried that maybe he was. It would be so easy to lay down right now, in the middle of the deck, and sleep. No one could stop him from doing so—for wasn't _he_ in _command_?

But of course he could not.

He would listen to this last report, and then he would retreat to his cabin. No one but Doughty would see him collapse on his bed. No one but Doughty would see his human frailty, so unbecoming of a ship's captain. Just one more report, and he could leave the repairs to the officer of the watch.

He was surprised to find words coming from his mouth, as the part of his mind that had listened to the surgeon responded to a question or acknowledged a difficulty. It was nice that he could leave this actual thinking to the still functioning portion of his mind while the rest of him wallowed in self pity and dreamed of sleep. And now the surgeon was walking away and he was free. Free to walk below, and free to let his head rest on his pillow.

"Sir?"

It was Bush. Of course. It would have been too easy if that had been all, if he were truly free. He felt his headache grow until his head pulsed in time with the blood pumping from his heart.

"Yes?" His voice came out flat without any effort whatsoever. Bush was smiling, his face still flushed with the euphoria of battle. The excitement of the engagement with the frigate seemed to have washed away his fatigue, leaving him entirely too cheerful for Hornblower's liking. He had witnessed the same transformation at Samana Bay, when Bush and he had kept the Spanish at bay with hot shot and a score of men. Hornblower did not see the same transformation in himself, and so he was jealous of Bush. He could not guess that Bush saw this as a trait they shared.

"Sir, the officers would like to invite you to dinner in the wardroom. Simmonds has the galley fire up, now that we've cleared away the guns, and we're serving the last of the lamb we saved from Plymouth. We wouldn't feel right celebrating without you, Sir. Cheeseman's got the watch, so you've no need to worry on that account."

Bush was genuine in his invitation—Hornblower doubted Bush was capable of dissembling even if he should want to. And lamb would be much better than salted beef and biscuit, even with Doughty's fancy manipulations. But Hornblower was too tired to be hungry. Too tired, indeed, to be anything other than _tired_. He opened his mouth to offer a polite refusal . . . then checked himself. It was not every day that a captain was invited to dine with his officers. It was a great show of respect, even admiration. To turn it down could only reflect poorly on him, and hurt morale. And too, they might ask themselves why he refused, might suspect his weakness. And it was not just the officers who would wonder. If Simmonds was serving them then the whole crew would soon know that he had turned down this invitation, which would lead to speculation in the lower decks. They might think he was displeased with his officers, or that he was too proud to eat with his men. No. It wouldn't do. Another hour or two of wakefulness could not possibly leave him more tired than he was now.

He opened his mouth again, "I thank you, Mr. Bush. I would be delighted to join the officers." He struggled to keep the fatigue out of his voice, and by Bush's widening smile thought he must have succeeded. "When shall I join you?"

"We should be ready for you in 15 minutes."

Bush left then, leaving Hornblower to pace the deck in a daze. If he went to his cabin, he knew he would not leave it, so he must remain on deck until this . . . dinner . . . was served. Funny that they should call it 'dinner', for it must be near four in the morning. Everyone had been working awkward shifts, frequently interrupted when all hands were needed for maneuvers. And the engagement of the past two hours had required the entire crew's full attention. He supposed that 'dinner' was more apt than 'breakfast'.

His mouth opened in a yawn which he ought to suppress. Yet the act of forcefully restraining his jaw made him aware of another discomfort. His throat was sore, and his jaw ached where it met his skull. The symptoms were disconcertingly similar to those of head cold, and this new fear—that he was on the cusp of being ill, pounded his thoughts much as his blood seemed to pound his head. His pacing was sluggish, and with the hands repairing sail, he only had eight feet in which to move, back and forth, back and forth. There was snow on the deck, and the path of his pacing was clear by the dark wood of the wet deck peaking through the white drifts. He shivered involuntarily. He even contemplated stopping, to save his tired legs the strain, but found that standing motionless took more balance than walking, balance which he utterly lacked in his current state.

It was with some surprise that he found Doughty tugging on his sleeve what must have been fifteen minutes later. Doughty must have heard of Bush's invitation, or mayhap he was sent by the officers to retrieve him directly.

"Sir, the wardroom is ready for you, Sir."

"Thank you." Hornblower fancied he heard disapproval in Doughty's voice, and he wondered if it was because he felt slighted, or if, perhaps, he had sensed his captain's fatigue where Bush had not.

Hornblower made his way below with measured steps, and found a crowd in the wardroom. He was amazed they had been able to fit that many chairs in the room, let alone bodies. There were nine people including himself. Bush, Prowse, and Cargill, of course, but also the young gentleman and midshipmen he was less acquainted with. Foreman, Poole, Young, Cummings, and Orrock. He found himself smiling at the cheerful assembly without realizing it, and he was too tired to smother it as he might have normally. They were all standing, waiting for their captain to sit first, and again he marveled that they had the space to stand beside their chairs. He felt a twinge of guilt for their stooped and awkward postures and seated himself quickly.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for this invitation. And thank you for your service. I dare say we won't be bothering with this stretch of the Spanish coast for quite some time." The words came easily to Hornblower's lips, and he realized with some curiosity that he might actually enjoy himself at this meal.

Bush made an appropriate response- "It's a pleasure to have you with us, sir" –and the meal was served with little ceremony but with obvious gaiety. Yet despite the bright atmosphere, and despite his shift in mood, Hornblower still did not feel inclined to eat. Even with the hot vapors of stewed lamb wafting up to his nose he was not hungry. He should be starving, considering how little he'd eaten over the past week, and over the course of that day in particular. But between his sore throat and deep fatigue, food just didn't interest him as he knew it should. He picked up his spoon and forced himself to lift several spoonfuls to his mouth. The thick broth was warm and salty, and felt good on his abused throat. That alone was enough to drive him through several more spoonfuls, but he could not eat with the gusto of his companions. A few minutes of silent chewing passed, in which everyone was too intent on the food for speech, and then the conversation began. Unsurprisingly it focused largely on the fight they'd just survived—Young and Foreman couldn't wait to tell their friends and siblings and parents back in England all about the exchange of cannon shot, while Cummings wanted to know what a bigger battle was like (it was mostly Bush who fielded this question), and Orrock questioned Prowse on points of mid-battle seamanship.

Hornblower was content to listen, as, apparently, were Poole and Cargill. He was hardly loquacious in the best of times, and at that moment conversation would be an effort. Instead he pushed the chunks of mutton around his plate, and kept an easy smile on his face as he tried to feign attention to the flow of words across the table. He must not have been as good an actor as he'd thought, however, because more than once he caught Bush giving him a worried glance. The third time it happened he met Bush's eyes, so his First Lieutenant would know he'd been caught, but while Bush had the grace to look mildly abashed, he did not look away entirely. Instead he drew his eyes from his captain to the plate before Hornblower such that there was no escaping his meaning. Bush had noticed Hornblower's lack of appetite, and this was his polite way of telling him to eat up. He thought, then, that maybe there was another reason for this dinner, and maybe Bush was much more clever than he gave him credit for.

The lamb was warm and surprisingly tasty when Hornblower forced himself to chew and swallow it, an act he repeated several times so as to avoid Bush's censure. But there was no joy in his eating, only mechanical necessity. And to distract himself from the unpleasantness of that necessity, he finally ventured into conversation.

"Mr. Cargill, where were you before you joined the _Hotspur_?" It was easy to maintain pleasantries with these younger men. Where do you hail from? Your family? He could walk them through their careers, ask pertinent questions about locations mentioned or achievements made. He could even dispense advice and narrate anecdotes from his time as a midshipman on the _Indefatigable_, stories which garnered the attention of the entire table, even a surprised Bush. And when he had thoroughly questioned Mr. Cargill he moved on to Mr. Poole. It was likely that a full hour passed before Orrock stood and left the room, returning a moment later with a wine bottle. It could only have been from someone's private stores, as he certainly had none left, and the Admiralty only supplied a rum ration. Orrock produced a glass, poured it half full, and placed it before his captain. Then he retrieved a stack of smaller glasses and let the stack and the bottle be passed around the table until everyone present held a glass. Then, as tradition dictated, Mr. Orrock, the youngest officer present, offered a toast.

"To the King!"

This, of course, had to be followed by a toast from the captain, and Hornblower pushed his chair back so he could stand. He forced himself to his feet by pressing down on the table, and felt dizzy from the exertion. He found he had to keep his hand on the table just to maintain his balance. In his mind's eye he could see himself falling to the floor before all of his officers, sprawled on the ground in his pathetic weakness. The vision strengthened his resolve, and he used the moment to gaze at the faces of his men, as if his pause was intentional. Then, his eyes finally focusing properly, he lifted his glass.

"To the _Hotspur_ and her crew. A captain could not wish for a better set of officers than those that walk her deck . . . nor a better set of curtains for his cabin." He smiled wryly here, his rue-some gratitude plain, "May she see us through many more battles to come." He lifted his glass and they drank. He could see by the looks in their eyes and the smiles on their faces that he had done well, so with some relief he seated himself once more, trying not to look like he was collapsing onto the wooden frame of his chair. He felt cold, like a breeze was winding through his clothes, but as a bead of moisture ran down his neck he realized he was sweating. His head pounded again in reminder that it, too, did not feel well. The act of standing had sent blood pumping into his head again in pulsing beats against his skull.

Bush was standing now, to make one final toast, and Hornblower forced his attention away from his own distracting maladies.

"I'd like to make one final toast tonight. To our Captain, the only captain, I think, who could have led us to victory amidst the perilous shoals of the Goulet."

The officers were solemn at this toast, taking their queue from Bush. This was a sincere gesture, and while part of Hornblower hated Bush for this embarrassment, and hated himself for enjoying the undeserved gratitude, Hornblower was touched. His voice was hoarse when he forced himself to grunt out "Thank you", and he did not think it was from his sore throat. There was a comfortable silence after the last toast, and then conversation resumed. Simmonds was suddenly there, removing plates and clearing the table. Cargill produced a pack of cards, and it became clear to Hornblower that the evening was not yet over for them. This was indeed a night of celebration. Hornblower, however, was quite ready for his cabin. His ailments were becoming more oppressive, his fatigue more pronounced, and it was only pride and will that kept him from laying his head down right there on the wardroom table. It was time to go.

He waited until the wine glasses, not terribly full to begin with, were empty, then called, "Gentlemen." Their eyes swung his way. "It is time for me to take my leave. I thank you most sincerely for the wonderful dinner, and fine wine. I hope it wasn't your last bottle." He smiled and Foreman and Young laughed. "Good evening." With that he stood, and stepped to the door. Or he tried to. He'd forgotten this dizziness. His toast had been not 10 minutes past—how had he managed to forget what a struggle it was to remain upright? To keep his balance? He made it to the door with the gracelessness of a drunkard, and clung rather pathetically to the door handle a moment before his brain could process how to open it. He made it through the opening and was attempting to pull it closed after himself when the _Hotspur_ rolled. It was not a violent roll—nothing more than a swell, really, but Hornblower's balance, ruined by his congestion and fatigue, failed him, and he fell to the floor. His eyes closed of their own volition, and he had to fight not to lose consciousness right there. What a scene _that_ would be. His eyes flickered open and he groaned quietly at the spots that speckled his vision.

There was a hand on his shoulder. "Sir? Are you alright, Sir?" It was Cargill, his woozy mind told him. He felt himself flush. _Damn!_ He moved his hands into a better position, then pushed himself up . . . only to fall back on his face, his arms weak and useless by his sides. _God Damn!_ And as if the force of the air leaving his lungs when he fell was a trigger, he started coughing then. A loud, racking cough that shook his whole frame and left him gasping for air, which was all the more difficult to suck in, as he was laying on his stomach. He was miserable. The hand on his shoulder went away, to be replaced with another, and someone was speaking. ". . . not well, sir . . . help you up . . . cabin . . . Orrock fetch . . surgeon!" Then he was being lifted up by strong arms, and his own arm was slung across a broad, sturdy back. Through his spotty vision he could see it was Bush, and he took some comfort in knowing that it was his friend who would be supporting him, and not one of the petty officers, or, heaven forbid, one of the young gentlemen. Now that he was standing, his coughing subsided, and he could feel his legs taking some of his own weight. He was incapable of turning to look behind him, which was fortunate, or he would have seen the crowd of officers there, looking on in blatant worry, concern, and uncertainty. Hornblower could just make out Cargill's large frame in front of him, and that was suitable embarrassment enough. He recovered some of his strength as they walked, using Bush more for balance than to support his weight. He wanted to apologize to Bush as much as he wanted to thank his friend, but he did neither, saving his breath for walking instead.

He was well enough to feel quite mortified for his display of weakness by the time they reached his cabin, and he was certain it was that, more than sickness and exertion, that made him red faced when Bush helped lower him to his bed. And of course his embarrassment made him irritable. It really should have come as no surprise that instead of thanking Bush, or apologizing, he spat out, "God damn your eyes."

Bush took this with frustratingly good grace. "You'll feel better in the morning, sir. The surgeon will be here in a minute to see what he can do." And then Doughty was suddenly at his side, pulling off Hornblower's boots, and unbuttoning his jacket. He was pushing Bush away with his mere presence, and Hornblower, his irritability now mingled with guilt and fearful loneliness, reached out a hand to prevent Bush's departure from his side. He succeeded in grasping an arm. "Forgive me." He rasped. Bush seemed to turn slightly, and then Hornblower felt his own hand lifted from Bush's arm to rest in between Bush's two hands. Bush gave a reassuring squeeze and Hornblower allowed himself to relax.

"Mr. Cargill. Have Simmonds heat up some water and bring it here with some towels," Bush ordered, though Hornblower could not see Cargill from where he lay. "Hot but not boiling, mind you. And bring some empty bottles while you're at it." Bush's voice was harsher than he was used to hearing it. It registered in Hornblower's fuddled mind that Bush was worried. Over him? Bush was forced to relinquish his hold when Doughty started pulling off Hornblower's jacket and waistcoat, but it was a temporary loss only. The surgeon, Wallis, arrived only moments after this undressing was completed, and he was quick in his inspection. Hornblower did not think there was much to see. He was sick, not wounded, and the only notable thing _he_ had seen when he last stood naked before a mirror was the protrusion of his ribs, which seemed to emphasize more than any other part of his body his growing thinness. Now the surgeon was taking his pulse, and prodding Hornblower's stomach. He needed no thermometer to proclaim that the captain had a fever and his pulse was high. With this proclamation Hornblower could endure the inspection no longer in silence.

"It's just a head cold, dammit. There's no need for all this . . . nonsense!" He felt acutely embarrassed by all the attention directed toward him and his illness.

"Perhaps so, sir." Wallis agreed. "But while your head is feverish, the rest of you is cold to the touch. And you're too thin. You need to rest for a few days. Sleep. Eat. No watches, no reports, no work."

"Are you relieving me of duty, sir?" Hornblower's voice was indignant. A head cold was a trivial thing—certainly not substantial enough to justify the worry conveyed by Bush's hand and the surgeon's intervention.

"I will, sir, if you do not rest." There it was. Wallis, who was a middle aged man, well inured to the complaints of patients of every class, did not look like he was willing to negotiate, and he was the one man on board who could force his will upon the captain, though he might risk court martial in doing so.

Hornblower sucked in a deep breath to voice a scorching rebuttal, but the intake of air tickled his throat, and instead he launched into another coughing fit. When his hacking came to an end he was only capable of a weak glare, but he leveled it at the surgeon all the same. The doctor had the grace to not laugh aloud at this rather pathetic defiance, maintaining enviable composure, but it was clear he was not about to change his mind. Hornblower sagged back onto his pillow and closed his eyes in fatigued frustration. And no sooner did the surgeon depart, but Cargill returned, Orrock at his heals.

"It doesn't look like you obeyed my orders, Mr. Cargill," Bush's voice was sharp, but quiet, like a tiger waiting for the kill.

"I've got everything, sir, only I decided to fill the water bottles straight from the stove so's I could carry more water and save you their filling here. That's why I needed Orrock—to carry the towels and bucket while I brought the bottles." As he said this Doughty, who had been standing unobtrusively near the end of the captain's cot, came forward to take the sack of bottle's from Cargill's hands.

Bush nodded his approval. "Very well. Orrock, set that bucket by me. _Gently_ now, don't let it splash. Very good. Dismissed."

"But sir, we're happy to-"

"DISMISSED."

As soon as the cabin door closed Bush pulled back Hornblower's blankets so that Doughty could start positioning the hot water bottles to maximum effect. Bush, for his part, dampened one of the towels in the hot water and started sponging off his captain's body. Hornblower was dusted with salt crystals from the sea spray that had infiltrated his jacket, and his face was coated in sweat.

"Kind of you, Mr. Bush, to look after my dignity," Hornblower rasped, sarcasm heavy in his voice. It was difficult to maintain any sense of _dignity_ when you were shivering and incapable of washing yourself. And of course Bush would not relegate the health of his captain to the hands of the lower deck, menial as his care might be.

"Should I call Mr. Cargill back then? He did look rather eager to please," Bush sounded so incredibly genuine that Hornblower could not restrain a laugh. Bush joined in, his deeper voice producing an echoing thunder that was a joy to hear. But then Hornblower's laughter dissolved into coughs, and Bush wrung his towel dry so that he might offer the captain a glass of water. Hornblower took some, and Doughty pulled up his blankets and tucked them tightly to his sides.

Bush would have remained then, even after seeing to his captain's physical needs, to ensure his friend's comfort, but Hornblower's fatigue was such that, once horizontal and fully warm, he fell asleep almost instantly.

Bush and Doughty exchanged small smiles and then both departed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II **(3100 words)

When Hornblower next awoke it was to a dim cabin. The _Hotspur_ was gently rocking, and when he twisted his head to look toward the window, he saw that the light was fading. He must have slept the entire day. It could be no earlier than six in the evening! As if to confirm this conclusion, he heard the tinny ringing of the bells. Four bells—he would guess of the first dog watch, which would indeed make it six in the evening! He didn't know whether to be more disgusted with himself or with Bush for letting him sleep so long. But as he pulled his legs over the side of his cot and came to his feet, he was delighted to discover how well he felt. His dizziness was gone, and he had only the slightest hint of a headache. He walked to his window to let in a breeze, then returned to his bed to grab a water bottle. He poured its contents into his mug and took a gulp, only to have his throat rebel. It struggled vainly to open and close properly, and he was certain that half the water went into his lungs instead of his stomach. The result was a rather horrible sounding cough that seemed to bounce off his cabin walls, and permeate the very air with its din. He envisioned his painful hacks penetrating the thin wood of his door and flying right out the window to the deck above. In seeming confirmation of this idle thought, he heard a brief knock on his door and Doughty entered. Hornblower had just about gotten his cough under control, and so he motioned Doughty to stay where he was, afraid the man might try to slap his back or something equally invasive in a misguided attempt at aiding his captain.

Finally his spluttering ended, and he took a hesitant sip of water to assure himself that everything was once more functioning.

His cheeks reddened in embarrassment when he looked up at Doughty, and he was compelled to explain, "Swallowed water down the wrong pipe."

Doughty inclined his head in acknowledgement, as if it was of no matter to him. "Can I get you some supper, sir? Something warm to drink?"

"I uhm . . . yes, Doughty. Yes." Hornblower considered leaving it at that, but the residual ache in his throat and the memory of the delicious broth of last night's supper prompted him to say further, "I would very much like some soup, if you can manage it."

Doughty visibly perked up at this request. He smiled as he said, "Aye aye sir," and Hornblower would almost have thought the man was skipping by the sound of his steps down the corridor.

Hornblower took advantage of Doughty's absence to dress himself, taking absurd satisfaction in re-donning the uniform that he had been so ignominiously stripped of the night before. Doughty had clearly done his best to wash and mend them, but when sea water was the medium used for the washing, it was hardly an improvement from their usual soiled state. Nonetheless, it was peculiarly relaxing to sit at his table and, leaning down, slowly roll up his stockings. It was gratifying to pull on his coat and carefully tie his stock. It was with pleasure that he stepped before his mirror and took in his handiwork. His neck cloth was perhaps not as straight as it could be, and he was sure Doughty could have done a better job with his hair, but . . . Hornblower couldn't help but feel that he looked good. Or better, anyway—he got the impression he'd looked God awful the day before.

There was a knock on his door and Doughty hustled in with a large tray. The spread on that tray looked obscenely delicious, and Hornblower could hardly disguise his eagerness. There was a large bowl in the middle, and from the smell it could only be lamb stew, no doubt from that very same dinner the night before. But that was not all. Doughty had done something to the ship biscuits to make them look like crackers, crispy and salted, and there was chunks of what could only be butter or cheese beside the crackers. And then there was a mug of something that _smelled_ like coffee, though logically Hornblower knew it could not possibly _be_ coffee. The entire meal must have originated from the wardroom, and for one brief moment Hornblower considered reprimanding his steward for his presumption. But the moment was indeed brief, and almost as soon as Doughty set down the tray, Hornblower was seated and lifting a spoon to his mouth. He could only hope that Doughty would see the rapid pace at which he ate and the smile that he could not quite contain, and convey his appreciation to the wardroom. Looking up at Doughty's grinning face as he sipped the last dregs of the soup, Hornblower had no doubt that he would.

It was a very sated and relaxed Hornblower that came on deck that evening. Prowse caught sight of his figure as he rose from the companionway and raised his voice, "Wind's backing east by nor'east, sir."

Hornblower nodded acknowledgement. That would be the land breeze starting up as night fell. He smiled, and began touring the deck. His improved mood was so apparent that Hornblower could see reciprocating grins on the faces of some of the seamen, and even on some of his officers. Bush, of course was the only one who risked commenting on the change, "Feeling better, sir?"

"Ha-h'mm," Hornblower cleared his throat. "Yes, Mr. Bush." Bush waited, but Hornblower did not elaborate. Instead he shifted his attention to the foremast. "How is she taking the strain?" He gestured with a lift of his head to the cracked but braced mast.

"Well enough, sir. I wouldn't like to test her in the weather we had a month back, but she'll get us back to Portsmouth, right enough."

"It is possible there will be a spare mast amongst the fleet at Ushant."

"Possible, sir." Bush clearly did not think it likely.

"And how close are we?"

"Mr. Prowse has us eight miles southeast of Molene Island, sir. We've had slow winds all day, and all abeam. We've only been pulling two knots, I'd judge."

"Very well." From L'ile-Molene it was another six miles or more to Ushant island, and from Ushant it was another six miles to the fleet's rendezvous coordinates. That meant they would be among the fleet in ten hours, if the wind held. But chances were that as the sun fell and they moved further from the mainland, the wind would slacken or veer. They might get a land breeze from the east once night settled in, but more likely the change in pressure would simply counteract the present southwest wind, leaving them with in a dead calm. It could be late tomorrow before they saw the squadron.

"Have those two shot holes been patched with something better than sail?"

"Ah-yes, sir. They were tarred and planked this morning. We've only been running the pumps for ten minutes every two hours. I think she's as dry as we can get her without a dock.

"My compliments to the carpenter and his mate," Hornblower said, pleased. "How are the wounded?"

"Seamus, 3rd gunner, passed away late this morning. The other two, both of the deck crew, should make it unless infection sets in. Wallis had to amputate an arm from the one, but the other got lucky."

It was peculiar how a man could be pierced by a ragged cannon-driven splinter and be considered lucky. But a seaman without both hands was a seaman at the end of his career; Hornblower knew that as well as any captain. "We shall have to commit the gunner's body. When do you recommend?" The others had been committed the night before, even as they'd been desperately struggling to make repairs, but any sea burial now would require a proper ceremony.

Bush gave Hornblower a surprised glance, and half-turned to face his captain fully. Hornblower rarely asked the advice of his officers, even on matters of importance. It was an indication of his high spirits indeed, if nothing else, that the captain would deign to converse with Bush on such a mundane topic. But Bush, now familiar with Hornblower's contrary nature, knew that any acknowledgment of the peculiarity of this moment could bring it to an abrupt end; and so he tried to pretend that this was an everyday occurrence. Hornblower of course noticed this effort, but his spirits were indeed such that he could pay it no mind.

"Well, sir, we've been through three watch rotations now, so I'd say most of the men have gotten at least a lick of sleep. But I don't reckon the crew would look kindly on a night-time funeral, now that it's not necessary. Superstitious lot, you know." Bush said this with a small laugh, but it was clear from its timbre that Bush counted himself among those 'superstitious' seamen. "Best to wait til' morning, I think."

Hornblower nodded, as much to see Bush's pleasure at having his captain listen to him as to pacify the crew's fears. And Bush was right. The sun was nearly set at that moment, the sky a darkening purple, and it would be better, contrarily, to _start_ the day with a funeral than to end it with one.

Hornblower let his eyes take in the rigging of the _Hotspur _in the fading light-the men by the braces, ready to run up the shrouds should he call them; Orrock at the wheel, and Prowse beside him, his wide girth making him one of the most recognizable figures on the deck; Bush looking keenly at the hands, thinking up some new exercise to keep them busy. The fading light was still enough to cast shadows on the deck, and the spiderweb of lines formed by the rigging aloft seemed to created intricately patterned snowflakes of blackness on the planking. It was every commander's dream to attain post-rank and secure a ship of the line, but at that moment, as he took in the beautiful symmetry of his sixth-rate, Hornblower thought it would not be so bad if he never left her. He turned to Bush.

"I'll take the deck, Mr. Bush, if you'd like to catch some sleep yourself."

"Thank you, sir, but I caught some at the afternoon watch. May I stand the rest of the dog watch with you, sir?"

"Very well, Mr. Bush." Hornblower imbued his response with as much gruff annoyance as he could muster, but he knew the effect was ruined by the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth.

It was four bells of the first watch before Bush retired, and two bells in the middle watch before Hornblower considered doing the same. He would have, too, but as he turned to give Poole the deck there was a hail from the masthead.

"Deck there! Sail to starboard!" That was a surprise. The wind had indeed slackened, such that they were just now approaching Ushant, and with the decline of the breeze a thick fog had rolled in. The sail would have to be close to be spotted, even from the masthead.

He cupped his hands to amplify his voice, "Masthead! What kind of sail?"

"Small, sir! No bigger 'en a brig! I see nets on 'er side. Fishing nets!" If the ship had been the _Deux Freres_, the lookout would have recognized her.

"Mr. Poole, take us starboard two points, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir."

A moment more and he could see the ship for himself. It was bigger than the _Deux Freres_—equal in size, he would guess, to a 12-gun sloop. The lack of gun ports and the large nets on her sides marked her unmistakably as a fishing vessel, much to Hornblower's relief. Fishing vessels of that size were unusual, but not unheard of. Of the four fish-boats he'd interacted with since the _Hotspur_ began patrolling French waters, all had been of a similar size to the _Deux Freres_, but they had also been trolling waters much nearer to Brest.

"Reef tops'ls!" He shouted to the hands. "Mr. Poole, take us along her port side." The _Hotspur_ already had her main sail and fore sail taken in, so this measure would leave them with only enough sail for steerage. Yet in this calm they hardly needed more than that.

"'La Terre Haute'" Poole read off the stern, his pronunciation rendering it closer to 'La Teer Hot'

"The High Ground." Hornblower translated as he watched the deck of the other ship. It looked busier than he would have expected for this time of night—just past one in the morning. They certainly could not be looking for pilchard. As they came up alongside he had the yards braced at countered angles to bring the minute breeze to bare against their forward momentum. He would not risk taking in all sail this near to Ushant, where the currents and rocky outcroppings could easily leave them aground at low tide.

He raised his hands to shout across the closing gap. "Good Morning, gentlemen," he struggled to recall the appropriate French, "What fish are you catching?"

There was a bustle of movement on the _Terre Haute_'s deck, as the regular seamen apparently sought out the captain or his mate for permission to respond. That discipline was commendable, if unusual for a ship full of fishermen. A long minute passed with no response, and so Hornblower rephrased his question, "Are you catching pilchards? Sea bass? Turbot?"

Finally a man appeared from inside the stern hatch. He looked hastily dressed, and his graying hair was still messy from sleep. There was someone by his side, whispering into his ear, and he looked over at the _Hotspur_ with great interest and attention. His eyes moved along the British vessel's length, and came to rest on Hornblower.

"You ask what fish?"

"Yes."

"We hunt tuna and swordfish."

"Do you indeed?" Hornblower's eyebrows rose. That would account for the size of the vessel—tuna and swordfish were large fish, requiring either harpoons or very strong nets attached to an equally sturdy ship. He did not see a harpoon gun on the bow, but perhaps they used the hand-thrown variety.

"Oui, Monsieur."

Hornblower's fatigue melted away with the excitement of such a fortuitous encounter. Any opportunity to gain new intelligence for the fleet was an opportunity to be seized.

"I would like to buy some fish," He shouted to the other captain, "Would you care to dine in my cabin while we discuss your price?"

It was hard to read expressions in the dark of night, but by the pale glow of lantern light he thought he could see the other man frown. He held a whispered conference with his companion, then returned to studying Hornblower.

"You can buy fish, Monsieur," He said, "But I do not wish to importune you by having me come aboard. Instead I would invite you to dine aboard our ship, for we have fresh stores from Ushant, and if you have never had swordfish steak, Monsieur, then I would have you eat it to its greatest effect, as prepared by our cook."

If Hornblower had not been so recently sick, or had he been less flushed with excitement, he might have hesitated at the Frenchman's counteroffer, for a captain was always loathe to leave his ship. But Hornblower's initial reaction was to be quite pleased by this invitation. If the fishing captain had accepted Hornblower's offer, Hornblower would have been forced to yet again trespass on the good will of the wardroom to serve anything respectable, and Hornblower felt much too indebted to the wardroom already. He could see very little harm in such a visit-with the _Hotspur_ standing in so close, the other ship was hardly in a position to practice any devilry. No. Hornblower was eager for news, even if it could not reflect their destruction of the Ireland invasion fleet, and so he accepted the invitation. He immediately ordered a boat lifted over the side.

In very little time Hornblower was down the side and across the water. Poole, the officer of the watch, could just make out his figure as he was waved into the small cabin at the stern of _La Terre Haute_, and disappeared from view. But they were both drifting slightly with the current, so Poole was forced to draw his eyes from the deck of the fishing vessel and adjust the _Hotspur's_ sail to insure she kept abreast of the sloop. He hoped the visit would be a short one; he had been looking forward to rejoining the squadron, and while he greatly respected the captain, he did not always understand him.

BBBBBBBBBB

"Sir! Sir!" Someone was shaking Bush's shoulder, and he forced his mind into wakefulness. He wanted to groan, but he was too accustomed to being woken at all hours for such a thing to merit more than mild irritation. He must have been in a quite a deep sleep to feel even this out of sorts.

Before his accoster could offer any explanation, Bush heard a yell, "Beat to quarters! Get up, ya' lazy bastards! To your stations!" It was the bosun, his booming voice echoing through the lower deck, and Bush needed no further prodding to jump to his feet. He grabbed his breeches and struggled to pull them on, even as he asked sharply, "What happened? Who are we fighting?" He turned to slip on his coat and saw that it was Foreman who had been sent to rouse him. The young man looked nervous and out of sorts, and not a little afraid. Interestingly, much of that fear seemed directed toward Bush, as if he was anticipating great displeasure from the first lieutenant. "Spit it out, man!"

"A fishing vessel has taken the captain, sir!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III **(3500 words, PG13)

"A fishing vessel has taken the captain, sir!"

"What?" Surely he must have misunderstood—the captain? Taken by fishermen? He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his bicorn, and headed toward the deck, Foreman at his heals.

The young gentleman struggled to offer Bush further explanation, "We met with a fishing boat about a half bell back, and the cap'n went over to buy some fish. But the fishing boat just took off, with no word, and the cap'n still aboard. Mr. Poole had the watch, and he set sail to follow, but with the fog-"

They were on deck now, and Bush raked his eyes across the rigging and the sea in quick assessment. The other officers seemed to be congregating on the foc's'l, and Bush approached them, searching for Poole.

"Sir!" There he was, by the bow. "Sir! They headed off north by northwest, but the lookout can only barely make them out now."

As if in confirmation of this assertion, there came a shout from the masthead, "Deck there! Sail is turnin' north!"

Bush's eyes were again on the rigging. Poole had done a tolerable job in getting sail out swiftly, but with the weak wind . . . having too much sail would add friction and do more harm then good.

"Take in the mains'l and fores'l , and clew the main tops'l!" He shouted to the hands.

Then, feigning a calm he did not feel, he turned back to the officers, "Mr. Young, put a good man in the chains. They might be sailing into the shallows, and we have the deeper beam. I want readings every five minutes. See that he has a replacement standing by. Mr. Orrock, get down to the gun deck and have all starboard guns ready to bare. We may not be able to see her, but that ship must be in shot range with this slow wind. Mr. Cargill, have someone fetch-Mr. Prowse!" Bush spotted the wide figure of the sea Master coming up the companionway. "Mr. Prowse, I'll thank you to pull out the charts of Ushant and the isles—I need to know whether we can follow the frogs if they decide to go up the Fromver, or however you say it."

The officers dispersed to see to his orders, and Bush had a minute to contemplate the import of all that had happened. The captain had been taken. _Taken_, dammit! Carried off under their very noses by a bunch of Johnny Crapeaus, and the _Hotspur_ had done nothing to stop them! And he had been _asleep_, by God! Asleep! The captain could at that very moment be dead, and Bush had been asleep! But Bush did not want to believe that the captain was dead—could not _allow_ himself to believe the captain was dead. Not Hornblower. A man as clever—as amazingly brilliant as Hornblower could not possibly be killed by a flea-bitten crew of mangy fishermen. _French_ fishermen.

"The guns are ready, sir!" That was Cheeseman, relaying Orrock's word, no doubt.

"Stagger the hight of each gun, so we get a wide spread. Fire as they're readied. Mr. Poole! Turn us two points into the weather so our starboard guns bear north!"

"Aye aye, sir." Bush heard Poole relay the order to the man at the wheel.

The _Hotspur_ lurched as the guns fired, and he strained to hear any response from the fishing sloop. Was that a scream? The crash of breaking timbers? The fog muted distant sounds even as it obscured their vision. Bush ordered the guns reloaded and fired again. It was not an easy decision. With each barrage the _Hotspur_ lost headway, and Bush was torn between giving earnest chase and showering them with shot. He feared that the fishermen would go into the shoals, where the _Hotspur_ and her guns could not follow—shoals he could expect at any moment, for he had not had time to confirm their position and consult the charts. This fear slowly solidified into a certainty in Bush's subconscious, and perhaps that was why he gave into his instinct to fire rather than chase.

"Deck there! I can't see 'er, sir! No sail in sight!"

"Damn!" Bush cursed. But he ordered one last barrage, knowing that even out of sight the _Terre Haute_ must still be in range. The booming concussion of nine-pounders rang in Bush's ear, but he heard no tell-tale creak of timbers across the water.

"Mr. Poole, take us due north!" He shouted. That would put the wind, what little there was, free on their quarter.

"By the deep six!"

Damn again. Now that the guns were silent Bush could hear the cry of the leadsman, and they were shoaling fast.

"And a half five!"

In another few minutes they would risk getting caught on the rocks.

Bush swore loudly. He could not just let the captain be carried off by those _vermin!_ Every part of him rebelled against it. That Hornblower had been taken off in the first place was ridiculous—the height of injustice! And why had the captain, bless him, ever left the ship in the first place? Could he not have entertained the fishermen in his cabin, as he usually did?

"By the mark four!"

"Mr. Poole! Turn us about, and when we have eight fathoms beneath us set us east by southeast! We'll move parallel to the isles." Bush folded his arms across his chest and simmered in frustration while the _Hotspur_ tacked and then slowly changed her heading. Even in his distraction Bush couldn't help but notice that their new heading put the wind a point off the _Hotspur_'s beam, such that he doubted they would make more than one knot of speed. The fisherman would have the immediate advantage.

"Mr. Cheeseman, you can run down to Orrock and tell him to reel in the guns. Little good that they did us! I want a look at those maps, Mr. Prowse. And I want to know what the devil was going on while I was asleep. Mr. Poole?" His voice was icy as he pinned the young gentleman with his keen blue eyes.

Poole wilted under that gaze, and he stuttered when he spoke, "I d-don't know, sir. We caught sight of a f-fishing sloop—the 'Tare Howte'. It was a right b-big one, but c-couldn't be anything other than a f-fishing boat. The c-captain shouted over to them in French, and it s-seemed to take 'em awhile to get their own c-captain on deck. Then they talked in French some more, and then the c-captain ordered the gig readied."

"You have no idea why he decided to go over there rather than have them come aboard the _Hotspur_?"

"N-no, sir. The captain said something about swordfish, said he was going over, and th-that was it, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Did the deck hands look like fisherman? There was no way it was a French sloop of war disguised as fishing sloop?"

"It didn't seem so to me, sir. Barnes was the lookout—he might of seen better."

Bush swung his head to the mast. "Barnes!" he yelled, his voice booming louder than any speaking trumpet. "I want you down here! Doyle! You'll take his place!"

Barnes came down the shrouds with the graceful alacrity of an experienced topsail man, but he had little to add to Poole's report. "Definitely a fishin' boat, sir. Ya' don't get nets lookin' like that unless you use 'em. And I saw some harpoon spikes along the side."

"You saw nothing peculiar about the men?"

"No sir. A bit quiet maybe. But they's frenchies, so who can say?"

"Thank you Barnes. You can go back and join Doyle; I want two lookouts in this fog."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush was at a loss, and stood silent a moment in thought. Yet there was very little to absorb—very little that was at all comprehensible. "What the devil are they playing at?" he finally burst forth, unable to contain his frustration. If Hornblower were there, he'd have a hundred guesses as to what had happened, and a hundred possible courses of action in mind. But the captain was not there, and Bush was suddenly faced with the fear that he was not capable of fulfilling his duty as a King's officer.

"Spies, sir." Mr. Prowse offered, breaking into his depressing self-condemnation, "They must be spies, in Boney's pay."

"Spies. I think you must be right, Mr. Prowse. It is the only explanation that makes any kind of sense."

"Unless there was something special in the captain's orders, sir."

The captain's orders. What _were_ their orders? They were supposed to patrol the Goulet, but did they have a secondary mission? Was this encounter more intentional than it appeared? No, that was ridiculous. Hornblower was not that good of an actor, and surely if there was a secret mission he would have told Bush . . . surely. Bush felt a wave of doubt. The captain often played things close to the chest.

He should look at the orders, to eliminate all alternatives. The thought caused Bush's heart to constrict, but it was the only way he could rid himself of all doubt.

Then, with this action clear in his mind, Bush was faced with another crisis of conscience. For the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions made no allowance for his current predicament. They provided that 'If the Commander in command of any Ship shall die, the senior Lieutenant on board shall, if there be no senior Officer present, take command of such Ship as acting Commander.' But Hornblower was not dead—at least Bush could not yet believe him dead-which made his assumption of command, and reading of the captain's orders, a murky legal precedent.

To hell with it. He'd withstand any admiralty censure if it helped him get the captain back.

Prowse had been watching the play of emotions on Bush's face as he went through this debate and he nodded almost imperceptibly when he saw Bush come to a decision, for he could guess what it would be.

"Mr. Prowse, get your maps and meet me in the captain's cabin, and bring Cargill with you. Mr. Poole and Mr. Foreman, you will stand watch together. If you catch sight of ANYTHING, or if there's a change in the wind, you will send for me immediately. IMMEDIATELY. Is that understood?"

He looked each of those young gentlemen in the face, his eyes narrowing at their nervous expressions. He was about to stalk away when a flash of red caught his eye. The red coats of the marines. Poole must have called them up on deck at the same time he'd sent for Bush, for all twelve of them were on deck-even the the drummer boy.

"Sergeant Clemens! I'll thank you to post three men on the bow and three on the quarterdeck. You're to keep your eyes peeled for any longboats, but do not load your muskets! And I want that sentry back at the captain's cabin!" Bush was horrified that the sentry had left in the first place—as if the captain's absence meant his cabin was not worth the effort of guarding.

He stalked below and hesitated only a moment before that very cabin's door. Like ripping off a bandage, he fancied it would be best to do this swiftly, with no attention given to sentiment. He pulled open the door. It was only two long strides to the desk, and though it was dark inside, he had no problem locating the drawer that he guessed would hold the papers. He had the compartment open in a moment and the papers out before him. There was a noise to his right.

He looked up to find Doughty hovering beside, an eerie phantom-like creature in the blackness, for Bush had not lit any lanterns as he entered the room. Doughty backed away immediately when Bush's face caught in the light of the hallway, and he stuttered, "Sir?"

"What are you doing here, Doughty?" Bush replied sharply, his eyes returning to the papers he'd removed.

"I—I saw the sentry gone, sir, and I wanted to make sure no one tried anything whiles the captain was gone." It was a little strange that Doughty should choose to stand guard in the dark, but Bush could understand some of his motivation in doing so.

"We _will_ get him back, Doughty. We _will_." He paused, squinting at the writing he could just make out. It had been daft not to take a lantern. "Fetch a light, Doughty."

No sooner said then done, and with the new illumination, Bush quickly spotted an envelope with a broken seal. A look at the date and signature in the letter confirmed it. Bush read through the thing quickly, but it was not long, and contained nothing mysterious. They were to patrol the Goulet. That was it. There were provisions for chain of command, where and how frequently to report, and what initiative they were allowed to take . . . but no mention of a secret mission. No mention of anything interesting whatsoever. Bush recalled then that they hadn't even had written orders when they stopped the Irish invasion fleet—Hornblower had only ever received oral permission from Chambers, and even then it was just to expand his patrol.

Bush stuffed the collection of papers back into the desk and was relieved when Prowse and Cargill entered the cabin, for it distracted him from the sense of uselessness that was growing in his stomach.

"The maps?"

Prowse laid them on the table in lieu of responding. Topmost was a chart of the Ushant island chain extending off the French coast.

"Where are we exactly?" Bush asked. It was irritating to be ignorant of such a thing, but he had been asleep for some three hours, and a glance at the traverse board was not enough to tell him their new location.

"We're near the mouth of the Passage du Fromveur, sir, which is where I reckon they've gone."

Bush examined the region Prowse indicated. It was a good thing he had decided not to follow the frenchmen, for they were further southeast than he had thought, no doubt a result of the weakened wind. The Passage du Fromveur was the channel separating Ushant Island from the island chain to which Molene belonged, and they were only at its southernmost entrance. And it was that southern entrance that was the most treacherous, for Loedec, the last rocky island before the passage, extended as a submerged ledge nearly a half mile into the channel. The tip of that outcropping, called Men Tensel, was visible even at high tide, but there were many rocks along the ledge and north of Men Tensel that were only two fathoms below the surface. If the breeze hadn't been so weak they might very well have hulled the _Hotspur_ in their initial chase.

Bush was gratified that he had not lost both the captain _and_ the ship in the same half hour. Yet the inspection of this chart left him with a choice to be made. Did he assume the frenchmen were indeed taking the Fromveur Passage? And if they were, did he give chase?

"She could hide anywhere in this fog," Bush thought aloud. "She could hide within the rocks until we've left, or she could swing around and make for the deeper sea as soon as we're out of sight. But what the hell are they doing with the captain?" That was what bothered him most. What could they want with Hornblower? Why take him and risk the _Hotspur's_ guns?

"Spies, like I said," Prowse asserted. Bush looked up at him, and then looked to Cargill, who he now saw was hovering uncertainly beside the sea Master.

"What do you think, Mr. Cargill?" Bush needed a sounding board, and Prowse was already certain in his accusation.

"M-Me, sir?" Bush just stared at him. "Well, sir . . . well . . . well, there's only two reasons I can see to take _any_ captain. Ransom and information. The captain doesn't have any-" Cargill stopped himself before he could complete what some might construe as an insult, but they all blushed nonetheless. Hornblower's poverty was impossible to miss, and even though the wardroom took pride in doing all they could for the man that led them, it was not a matter to be discussed openly. Cargill continued his original thought, "In any case, they can't very well expect to hold him ransom when all they have is a brig. So that leaves information. Maybe Bonaparte will pay them for it, or maybe-maybe they really are spies." His analysis complete, Cargill looked down at the chart, clearly too nervous to meet Bush's eyes.

But Bush was impressed with this assessment by the Master's mate, and he said so. "I think you must be right, Mr. Cargill. And if that is the case, they must sell their information somewhere, and the French fleet is at Brest." He looked again at the chart. "We have no hope of catching them in this fog and in the shoals, so we must catch them when they make for port." His finger traced the path they would have to take—the same tack they'd taken to reach Ushant, but in the opposite direction. His finger paused at the narrow passage into Brest harbor. "We'll stop them at the Goulet." Bush saw Prowse and Cargill both nodding at this conclusion, and he took some comfort from their agreement. He was not at all sure that they would find _La Terre Haute_ at the Goulet, but it was all he could think to do.

Bush looked again at the two men closest to him in rank aboard the _Hotspur_. Prowse was a solid man, a competent Master. And he didn't take nonsense from anyone, be they above him or below him in rank. Cargill Bush had never thought much of. That initial poorly managed tack when they first left Portsmouth had left a sour taste in his mouth, no matter how the captain tried to excuse it. But Bush knew that Hornblower respected Cargill—liked him even. So Bush would do the same.

"Gentlemen. I want one of us three on deck at all times. I suggest we arrange our schedules accordingly. I'll stay on presently, until the start of the forenoon watch. I don't fancy I'll be able to sleep should I want to anyway."

"Aye aye, sir," Cargill replied, and Prowse nodded.

Bush straightened from his bent pose at the table and smoothed his jacket. Then he adjusted the great coat on his shoulders and made for the door. As he left he heard Prowse mutter, "We'll see if there's a captain left, after what those devil's 'l do to him."

It was only after Bush had been on deck for two hours that those words came back to him. He had been pacing back and forth across the deck, examining and reexamining the rigging to give the _Hostpur_ every inch of speed she could muster, but there really was little to be done with that weak breeze abeam. So at length Prowse's pessimism niggled its way into his mind.

' . . . after what those devils will do to him . . .'

What _would_ they do to him? Bush had feared for Hornblower's life the moment he'd been told of this disaster, but it had been the natural fear of any man at war. He had not considered that the frogs might have something in mind other than a shot to the head. But Cargill was right—they wanted information. How did an enemy acquire information? Hornblower had used bribery, but he did not think the captain of _La Terre Haute_ would do the same.

Yet this was ridiculous; surely Hornblower would be protected by the rules of war? The french would be mad to treat him with anything other than complete respect. The political and military storm that would rain down upon them if they did not . . . except . . those men had not looked like officers of Bonaparte's navy. Would the rules of war apply to fishermen? Citizens?

Bush was unsure. Kidnapping was hardly condoned by the accord, so if they had gone that far, it was only a step further to . . . would they torture him?

They would.

A fearful agony seized his heart. Prowse was right; they would be lucky if there was a captain left after what those devil's would do to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV (**3900 words)

When morning came they were just nearing the Chanel du Four, the channel dividing the mainland from the rocky chain of islands leading to Ushant. It was a slow haul across that open water to the point of Saint-Mathieu, with no sail in sight.

Cargill took the watch.

The wind did not pick up until late in the forenoon watch, when the mainland had warmed sufficiently to create a pressure difference between the land and sea. The southwest winds the _Hotspur_ had experienced all day became a steady blow, increasing their speed to seven knots as they changed their course to east a quarter north. By two bells into the afternoon watch they were at the mouth of the Goulet, and Cargill sent Orrock to rouse Bush. Their plan had been to patrol the Goulet until they caught sight of the _Terre Huate_'s sail, but such a thing was not simple. There were batteries on both sides of that narrow passage, and _Hotspur_ would have to hug the dangerous shoals in the center to stay out of cannon range. More worrisome still, the batteries would surely relay their position to the fleet at Brest, such that in very little time they could have several frigates chasing their stern. And then, even if they did sight the _Terre Haute_ without interference by the fleet, what were they to do? Give chase and fire upon her? They would risk killing the captain in the crossfire!

Bush, a man of action not of thought, had found no ideal solution.

"Masthead! Scan the passage!"

There was a pause.

"Nothin', sir! No sail in sight!"

Bush held his features taught; this was disappointing but not surprising. It was unlikely that the _Terre Huate_ had made better time than the _Hotspur_. She would have had to move slowly through the shoals, and if she remained on the north side of the isles she would have caught even less of that weak southwest wind than they had.

"Bring us west by southwest, Mr. Cargill. I want to luff and touch her."

Cargill pulled the ship to port, directing the _Hotspur_ in a 220 degree rotation so that their turn was made _with_ the wind rather than_ into _it. To 'luff and touch' was to bring the ship as close to the wind as possible, then let her fall off a point. Their new heading put the wind four points off their bow, sailing close hauled. Bush brought a telescope to his eye and pointed it to the shrinking coast.

They were a good four miles offshore and two hours down in the glass when he ordered the yards swung against the helm to halt their forward motion.

"Bring in all canvas! I don't want a scrap of white showing!" He yelled to the topmen and hands. They hurried to do his bidding without a second thought, but the nearby officers looked at him in surprise. Prowse, who had come on deck upon sensing the turn of the ship, seemed on the verge of objecting.

Bush explained, "Even the batteries will have trouble spotting us with our sails furled. If we're lucky they'll think we've gone."

"We'll drift, sir," Cargill was compelled to point out. With all sail furled they would have no maneuverability whatsoever.

"Indeed," Bush confirmed, "But it is high tide now. In two hours the current will be moving against the wind, and if we're lucky the one will equal the other."

Prowse had been making this same deduction even as Bush spoke, and he looked shrewdly at Bush, as if surprised to find his wits matched by the stern lieutenant. Bush tried to ignore this inspection, but it was difficult not to feel some irritation.

"I want someone taking readings with the sextant every thirty minutes so we can calculate our drift," he barked. "And I want two men on lookout." He directed these orders to the sailing master and his mate rather than the men, and Cargill rushed to relay the commands.

Prowse gave Bush another look, then nodded once and smiled. "Aye aye, sir."

That was gratifying, yet it was small satisfaction. Now that Bush was up on deck, he could not return to his cabin, though he'd be leaving the ship in capable hands. He was anxious enough to pace the deck the rest of the afternoon, despite the unexpected self-consciousness Prowse's inspection had sparked. He settled for standing stolidly by the wheel and surveying the rigging as the sails were one by one hauled up and tied round.

He mentally pictured which sails he would unfurl first should they need to move quickly. The yards would need to be swung _this _way if they spotted a sail from the north, and _that_ way if they spotted a ship of war coming out of the Goulet. They would make the best headway with the wind a quarter or more abaft the beam, on a heading either a quarter north or a quarter east of northeast_,_ but they would catch their sails aback if they turned too sharply into the wind while under full sail. This was simple, straight-forward seamanship, and Bush navigated every possibility in his mind as more a mental relaxation than an exercise. Fretting about sails was infinitely less distressing than fretting about his captain, for whom his imagination could conjure horror after horror.

These thoughts successfully distracted Bush for the rest of the afternoon watch, but at the change of the watch his musings were interrupted by an unexpected visit from Wallis, the ship's surgeon.

"We have a problem, sir."

Bush's eyebrows rose. Of _course_ they had a problem—the captain was in the hands of cock-crapping mercenaries!

"Just what is the problem, Wallis?"

"It's Seamus, sir."

"Seamus." Bush hadn't the foggiest idea to what the surgeon was referring.

"Yes, Seamus—the 3rd gunner. He's been on my table for over a day and a half, and the smells gettin' to be right foul, sir. It's not sanitary, and it's not good for morale."

Seamus. The hand who'd died when they'd engaged the french invasion fleet. Bush took a deep inhalation through his nose, then let it out in a gust.

"We'll have to commit him now. I'll do the readings."

This must have been what Wallis expected, for he nodded. "Very well, sir. I'd recommend doing it after supper, sir. Men might lose their appetites otherwise."

Bush nodded stiffly, "Give his body to the sailmaker, and have the bosun collect his things for auction." He turned his gaze back to the rigging before the surgeon could respond, but he heard a grunt of acknowledgement.

He could not decide whether it was an ill omen or good that they would be holding a funeral on the eve of this night. By morning Hornblower would either be dead, reclaimed, or lost forever to the French. Would a restless spirit hurt or help their chances? He'd know in two hours, he suspected.

But thirty minutes later, two bells into the first dog watch, he was confronted by another problem. They had drifted more than he could wish. The broad side of the _Hotspur_ was as big as any sail, even low as it was to the sea's surface, and the wind had had two hours to work against the ship before the falling tide began counteracting it. Even then the current did not counter the wind fully, for in that last hour of the watch the strengthening flow had merely deflected them north instead of northeast. They were not in danger of the batteries, but they were approaching the coast between Saint-Mathieu and the Goulet and would have to come about to avoid the shallows.

Bush ordered out all sail but the mains'l and mizzen sail. They would have to beat back against the wind, and for that endeavor the tops'ls and to'gallants would bear the brunt of the work. That would take some time, time he could devote to the last benediction of a dead man.

The sun was flush with the horizon and giving out her last rays as the first dog watch ended. It was a fitting sight to accompany a funeral; the pale yellow and pink rays glistened against the undulating sea to create a sparkle of jewels on every smooth wave. The dark blue of the ocean was an impenetrable black that would quickly swallow any body. Bush could only hope it was impenetrable enough to prevent the escape of this man's wandering spirit, for if there was so much as the hint of a ghost aboard the _Hotspur_, he'd be fighting more than the wind in his chase.

Bush gave the just-relieved shift thirty minutes to eat, then called all hands on deck. Cargill brought the ensign down to half mast. Several men were required in the rigging and at the braces to keep the ship beating to windward, but otherwise Bush would observe all proper ceremony for this, his first prayer for the dead.

O'Grady, a hand from Seamus's division, came forward with a small chest clutched in his wiry hands. Bush made no comment as the seaman began calling out the bidding for his comrade's possessions. It occurred to Bush that he did not even know if Seamus had a wife—a family. He felt a pang of guilt as he realized that, _beyond_ not possessing this information, he had not even the interest in acquiring it. His heart and mind were devoted singularly to the retrieval of his moody, dark-eyed superior. When he tried to picture the face of this lowly deck hand he saw instead a thin, melancholy face framed by dark curls. He saw a tall figure by the wheel, steering them through shoals no other captain would brave. He saw thin lips pressed into a frown of irritated fatigue as a mind that worked faster than any other aboard was forced to accommodate the practical limitations of a body. Hornblower haunted Bush as thoroughly as any corpse—an image that caused Bush to shudder, despite the eyes upon him.

Seamus's body was carried to the rail by four fellow sailors in a short semblance of a parade. When his body rested in the gap where a gun formerly perched, Bush opened the Book of Common Prayer he'd had Doughty fetch from the wardroom.

"Fore as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to . . ."

It was strange how he could hear these words so many times during his service, and yet when it came to speaking them himself he found that he must carefully read each one in turn to make sure he left none out.

". . . we therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the Sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then the four men who had carried the weighted canvas to the side heaved. There was a splash, and then Seamus Whiting, 3rd gunner, disappeared into the dark waters of the deepening twilight.

Bush dismissed the hands.

It took them four hours of slow tacking against the wind to reach that same point at which they'd started, miles off the coast. The crew seemed unperturbed by the funeral—likely anticipating the action they thought was to come—but Bush was restless, as he had been all day. When they finally came that satisfactory distance from the coast, he again furled all sail and let the _Hotspur_ bob gently in place.

As before they drifted, but now they drifted east by northeast. The southwest wind they'd enjoyed all afternoon had slackened as night fell, but when they lost the wind they gained the current, for the tide had reversed at the end of the second dog watch and now pulled them slowly but inexorably toward the Goulet.

Late in the first watch the wind returned from a different direction. It was a clear night, which allowed the mainland to cool significantly. This made its surface colder than the ocean's surface, creating higher pressures over land than water. The result was a land breeze, coming from north by northeast. Yet the wind was not quite sufficient to halt the pull of the current, and by three bells into the second watch they were getting dangerously close to the battery at the northern mouth of the Goulet.

Bush, who had been unable still to drag himself down to his cabin to sleep, was on the verge of calling the men up the shrouds to loose sail when someone at the mast let go a shout.

"Sail to lew'ard! Sail in sight!"

Bush was at the rail in an instant, telescope to his eye. It could be no more than two miles off-a patch of white in the darkness. The clear sky had given them the added benefit of a crescent moon, and it was no doubt only that light that had allowed the lookout to spot the sail. Bush looked again through the glass. Three masts, but not as tall as their own rigging, and she did not appear as long as the _Hotspur_. She could be a brig, maybe a sloop of war, but . . . but . . .

"You men! Get up those lines! I want all sail out, and be quick about it! Mr. Prowse, you'll take us southeast a point east—I want to be to windward of her when we draw near!"

The hands wore grins on their weathered faces as they scurried up the ratlines, and while Bush could not join them in that expression, he felt himself fill with an anxious excitement. That could only be the _Terre Haute_, which meant they were in spitting distance of the captain; in spitting distance of a battle. It took only five minutes for the last sail to unfurl, and then Cargill was directing the men at the braces to swing the yards round. The wind would be a point abaft their beam, and the tide was still in their favor, which meant Bush could expect them to make as much as four knots.

They gained quickly.

At four bells the _Terre Haute _was near enough to be easily recognized, and the _Hotspur_ in turn. The frenchmen had no doubt been surprised by her sudden appearance—they would not have seen her until she unfurled her canvas. Only now did they adjust their sail, mirroring the _Hotspur_ in her southeast heading. They were both past the mouth of the Goulet then, and Bush was forced to consider the navigational difficulties ahead. The passage was less than a mile and half wide, and in mid-channel lay three significant dangers: the Fillettes, the Goudron, and the Mengam. The Fillettes, the little girls, was the western most obstruction; a series of rocks that were submerged at high tide, and only five feet above the ocean surface during low spring tide. This was a hazard Bush was well accustomed to, thanks to Hornblower's noble insistence on those night patrols, and he had a healthy respect for their danger. The others he was less familiar with. The Goudron was a rocky bank just east of the Fillettes, only two feet beneath the surface at low tide. The Mengam, a mile further east, was a large black rock, protruding 16 to 26 feet above the water line. The entire cluster of shoals would be a constant concern for the _Hotspur_ while she remained on their weather side.

And stay to the weather side they would, for the beginnings of a plan had formed in Bush's mind. The _Hotspur_ and the _Terre Haute_ were on a course to intersect just before the Fillettes—the frenchmen clearly intending to take the southern route around the shoals. The _Hotspur_ would take the northern route.

"Mr. Prowse. Take us north by northeast, and then east when we're well clear of the Girls."

"Aye aye, sir."

They would be have to sail close to the wind to take that heading, but once in the channel they would move faster than the _Terre Haute_. The current was stronger in the northern portion of the Goulet than the southern, and they had more sail and a deeper draft for the tide to carry. They would beat their prey to the end of that mile of shoals even if their sails shivered all the way.

Forty-five minutes of beating against that foul wind proved Bush correct in his estimation, though it took longer than he had expected. The tide had reached its peak halfway to their destination, and the water was still-the current halting as it prepared to reverse direction. What speed they had towards the end was from the wind alone, and that was not much, since it was coming in only four points off their bow. His only consolation was that he could see the _Terre Haute_ as they both moved through the Goulet, and the _Hotspur_ easily had her reach. When they came to the end of the Goudron it was a simple matter to turn the wind on their quarter and position themselves at the passage between the Goudron and the Mengam. If they could keep station there, they would block the french sloop's exit-

"Mr. Orrock! Beat to quarters! I want the guns run out!"

"Aye aye, sir!" There was fire in the lad's eyes as he descended from the quarterdeck to the gun deck, and Bush found himself envious. He was too worried, too preoccupied with strategizing, to feel that easy excitement. The guns were loaded and brought to bear in less than three minutes, which was remarkable considering the men had not been at their stations prior to his command.

"I want the port guns ready to fire, Orrock!" Orrock didn't spare him a glance, but Bush heard a jubilant "Aye aye, sir!" issue from below him. They were before the passage now, and the sloop was in their sights off the starboard beam. But with the wind at their stern, Bush would not risk them coasting into the Mengam while they were preoccupied with the guns. As soon as that rock loomed before them he tacked the _Hotspur_ round, bringing the port guns to bear and cutting their speed by putting the wind fore of their beam.

The _Terre Haute_ was but a third of a mile distant-easy cannon reach. It would be a simple matter to hull and sink her! to dismast her! to blast her to pieces for her treachery! That was the least they deserved, for what they'd done to the captain!

The captain.

With a jolt Bush saw the flaw in his plan. The captain was aboard that same sloop he was preparing to blow out of the water. One stray shot-one flying splinter and Hornblower could be dead. And dead at Bush's hand, or near enough.

"Mr. Orrock!" He shouted in sudden alarm. "Aim for the masts and the rigging! I don't want to see a single shot below the rail! Aim high, damn you!"

"Aye aye, sir! Shall we fire now, sir?" Orrock's voice was unchanged from its previous enthusiasm, and Bush forced himself to relax. Their current position was a far sight better than that of the night before, when they'd been wandering the fog in hazy confusion. At least now they could _see_ the _Terre Haute._

"Fire as she bears!"

Bush heard orders relayed to the guncrew, and then the nine nine-pounders of the port side fired one after the other in a concussion of sound. He kept his glass pressed to his eye. He saw two holes appear in the _Terre Haute_'s courses; one of the yards ratcheted around as its spar was struck . . . but no mast fell.

"Reload!" Orrock shouted, stealing the words from Bush's mouth.

"Fire at will, Mr. Orrock!"

The gun deck was shrouded in smoke, and with the next wave of explosions the cloud wafted up to envelope the quarterdeck. Bush could not see the effect of this second barrage, but he fancied he heard the crack of splintering wood.

"Deck there! She's turning!" called one of the topmen.

"Which way?" Damn that blasted smoke! He needed to _see_!

"She's trying to reverse her heading, sir!"

They could try to run, but they would not succeed. They must know that . . .

"We'll give chase," he spoke aloud to himself, affirming in his mind which action he would take next. A voice by his elbow stopped him from immediately issuing the command.

"We're drifting, sir."

Bush looked at Prowse in surprise. Of course they were drifting—with the wind off their beam they would move a touch west for every cablelength they gained to the north.

"The tide is coming out."

Ahh. It had been high tide some forty-five minutes past, which meant that the tide was falling now, driving an ever strengthening current out of the Bay of Brest. They were drifting westward faster than he had realized.

"Thank you, Mr. Prowse."

With both the current and the wind acting in concert they would have to take in some sail to avoid coming upon the french sloop too swiftly. The _Terre Haute_ was too near the shoals to approach her incautiously.

"Take us due west, Mr. Prowse, and I want the forecourse and the mizzen tops'l down."

"Aye aye-"

"Deck there!" The masthead again interrupted Bush's orders. "She's turned into the wind, sir! She's all aback!"

Bush's eyes widened involuntarily. "All aback?" The french must have gone to port instead of to starboard when they made their turn, attempting to save time by risking the wind.

"Her sails are shivering, sir!" The second lookout shouted.

"She's still turnin'-" The first added.

Bush could almost see the motions in his minds eye, even as the billowing smoke of the guns began to settle.

"The current's got 'er!"

"They've got their yards turned now—"

"They've stopped!".

"No—they've gone aground!"

Bush could contain himself no longer. He put his glass to his eye and strained to see through the haziness surrounding them. There she was, only a quarter mile away. She was rocking every-which way, helpless in the throws of the wind and current. Waves were splashing on her weather side, some beginning to break over her rail. She was INDEED grounded! When her sails flew aback, she'd become a victim to the current, and that falling tide had taken her right on to the Goudron! At high tide, those rocky shoals would be maybe 8 feet below the surface—about the draft of the _Hotspur_. It was bad luck indeed that the sloop had caught on anything! And now that she had, she'd be stuck there, for the water was only getting shallower.

"Mr. Cargill! Mr. Poole! Prepare the boats!"

They'd board her, by God!


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V **(4250 words, PG13)

The _Hotspur_ lay hove-to two cables lengths from the Goudron. They did not dare weigh anchor in that narrow space, for the currents and wind could easily drag them even with that weight, and they'd sacrifice maneuverability. They would have to play the wind against the rudder to keep her stationary, and Bush was leaving Prowse to that task. He would allow no other to command this boarding, and no other officers were in a position to object. He would lead the first boat—the captain's gig, appropriately-and Cargill would command the longboat.

There was no point in disguising their approach, so they rowed at full strength, paddles un-muffled. The fishermen had only a harpoon gun and a scant few pistols to fend off their approach, and that was hardly worth mounting a defense. As they neared the _Terre Haute_'s wave-battered side it became clear that the frenchmen indeed had no intention of rebuffing their advance—they meant to flee.

Bush leaned forward against the prow of the gig to peer into the darkness, cupping his face to block out the lantern light of the looming sloop.

There! A cables length north was a longboat. The chick hearted scoundrels were abandoning their ship and making straight for the french coast! Bush looked up the sloop's side and then back at the sea. Would they have brought Hornblower with them on that boat?

A whistle rang past Bush's ear.

That was a pistol shot from the _Terre_ _Haute_'s deck! Apparently all hands had _not_ made it off the ship!

Maybe they were in the process of loading a second boat . . . it was unlikely he'd be able to catch that first longboat without the _Hotspur_ in any case . . . they would stick with their original plan.

"Hewitt!" He shouted to the man at the rudder, "Take us up against the stern shrouds. Handsomely now!" The falling tide was forcing water against the sloop's starboard beam and pushing the entire vessel on to her leeward side. It was only a matter of time before she capsized completely, though that would likely be some time yet, with the ground beneath her. Even so, with the buffeting, the gig was in very near danger of breaking itself upon the hull. Hewitt directed the boat carefully alongside, the crew upping oars as the gap narrowed.

Cargill was moving the longboat around the stern to board the port side when Bush gave the order to climb the shrouds. With the alacrity of a skilled topman Bush climbed the side and pounced on to the deck. He had left Hewitt and another man in the boat to keep it steady in the water, but he could not remain there himself. He had a cutlass in hand and was ready for a fight the moment his feet made contact with the planking, swinging his head in a violent circle to find the nearest enemy.

There! Behind the mizzen mast!

He charged forward, a macabre grin spreading across his face as his limbs filled with adrenaline. For one brief instant he could lose himself to glory of battle. The fisherman—for fisherman he must be, with the way he was holding that sword—barely met Bush's rush, and with the second blow he fell, sliced from neck to navel. Bush turned to look for another target.

There was none.

He saw two other frenchmen laying prone on the deck, and his men loitering by the foc's'l.

WEEUP!

That was another pistol shot, this time from the port side! He rushed to the rail amidships. Two more frogs were in a boat on the side, firing into Cargill's oncoming longboat. Clearly the five stragglers had been attempting to load up with additional goods before they made their escape, but they had mistimed their venture. It was a lost cause now. The line of British marines had a clear shot from where they stood in the sternsheets of the longboat, and in the next instant the fishermen were dead, each a mess of pulped flesh.

Bush turned back to the deck to look for the nearest hand. "Black! Take three men and go below! Search the decks for frogs, and keep an eye out for the captain!"

"Aye aye, sir!" the man grinned, turning to pick his men. As he turned he froze, however, and Bush, following his gaze, froze with him. He felt the blood leach from his face, and a trembling begin in his limbs. For a second he was incapable of moving. Then he was running, five leaping strides, to stand before the mainmast.

There would be no need to search the lower decks for Hornblower.

"Sir? Sir?" Bush called out, almost afraid to touch that limp, wet figure. Hornblower had been tied to the mainmast, his navy jacket blending in with the hulk of wood in the poor light of the deck; that was why he had not been spotted immediately. His tall, lean frame sagged lifelessly against the thick cords that bound him, and he did not appear to be awake. Bush reached out a tender hand to feel for a pulse.

It was there, weak but steady.

"Cut him down!" He growled to Black, and he heard a knife leave its sheath and then the whisk of a blade working against hemp.

"Sir?" Bush beseeched again, praying for a response. He shifted his hand to the captain's face, brushing back the dark hair that matted his forehead so he could better see any movement. Beneath that hair however, was something almost as distressing as Hornblower's continued silence. A dark bruise marred fully half of the captain's face, extending from his left eye to his chin. Bush felt a chill rush down his spine. He dreaded to see what other sins lay beneath his friend's uniform. Bush's hand, still flush with Hornblower's cheek, grew cold, and he pulled it away to warm it in his pocket. Then with a further horror he realized the implication of that cold. Hornblower's skin was freezing. He wore only his uniform jacket—no great coat, no blanket, no gloves—and he'd been exposed to the elements for at least an hour, maybe all night. It was _December_, for God's sake! His skin, where it wasn't bruised, was white, and if he wasn't shivering it could only be because he was _beyond_ shivering.

Hornblower suddenly fell against Bush, and it was clear that Black had cut the last cord binding him. Bush's arms fell naturally around Hornblower's shoulders, and he rubbed violent circles up and down the captain's back to work some warmth into that torso. Then Bush carefully hefted Hornblower onto his shoulder and carried him to the port side. He was disturbingly light—as light as a woman—almost a child! Bush knew the captain had lost weight, but he had not realized just how much. He forced himself to move faster to the sloop's side. The gig on the starboard beam was precarious at best, and the port rail was closer to the sea with the way the sloop was leaning.

"Cargill!" He shouted down into the sternsheets of the longboat.

Bush saw the master's mate look up in question, and he was happy to see the full marine compliment was still in the boat. Cargill must have decided not to waste time unloading and loading the longboat's men when he heard the battle end on deck.

"I have the captain!" Bush explained. "I'm going to lower him over the side to you. You will return to the _Hotspur_ immediately, and get him to Wallis." There was no room for questions in this order, and Bush slipped the captain off of his back and lowered him gently by his arms without further ado. The marines could just reach Hornblower's legs as he dangled over the side, and in a moment they had him fully in the boat.

"Sir-" That was Black, again by his side. Bush felt something soft and heavy pressed into his newly emptied hands. "I found dhese below, sir." They were blankets. Wool blankets. Clever man.

"Wrap him in these, Cargill!" He yelled, then threw the folded bundles into the sternsheets. "Keep him as warm as you can! Have the marines take turns rubbing his arms and lengths to get his blood moving—use your coats—do whatever you have to!"

Cargill gave him a worried frown, and Bush felt his fear transform into irritation. "Go, damn you! Hurry!"

"Aye aye, sir. Give way!" The longboat shoved off.

Bush watched them for another second, then turned back to the deck. If he had been any other lieutenant he would have returned with the captain himself. But he was in command now. He had a duty to do. The sloop was not a vessel of war, but it was a prize, and as such there were protocols that must be followed. He must search for ship's signal book, the captain's log, and any other papers. And, it seemed ridiculous now, but he was duty bound to take as many valuables as he could from the _Terre Haute'_s hold. He doubted very much they'd find anything, given that the crew had escaped free and clear, but he must launch a search nonetheless.

"Black," the man was already looking at him, but Bush said the name to organize his own thoughts. "What of the lower decks?"

"All clear, sir. Not another soul on board."

Bush let the words flow into his head, grasping for appropriate orders. "Have the men collect anything valuable, and keep their eyes peeled for a signal book, or papers."

"They've been keepin' a sharp eye out for val'ables, right enough, sir, but I'll pass on the bit about the papers." Black knuckled his forehead, then moved aft to the companionway.

Bush turned his eye to the rigging. He was certain that he should be following Black to search at least the captain's quarters for himself, but he could not. Duty required him to stay aboard the _Terre Haute_ with his men, but despite his intent to do right, his heart was still with Hornblower and that longboat. His mind kept replaying the utter lack of expression on the captain's face when it had been cleared of its damp tendrils of hair-the lifelessness of his limbs. He'd been like a crude marionette over Bush's shoulder, his arms dangling and jiggling only with Bush's own movement, giving no indication that they belonged to a living and breathing man. Maybe Bush had misread that faint pulse. Maybe Hornblower was dead.

But if the captain was dead then he was dead, and Bush could not do anything about it; perhaps if he distracted himself sufficiently he'd be able to remember that.

Bush forced his gaze upon the ropes and courses above him. His eyes wandered from a tear in the canvas of the mizzen tops'l to a dangling spar of wood. So it was one of the mizzen yards they'd struck in that first broadside—or perhaps they'd hit more than one. He walked forward still looking aloft. At least two of the mizzen stays were missing . . . two of the main braces on the starboard side as well. There were even more shot holes in the for'rd sails, but the cannon balls seemed to have gone out of their way not to hit anything vital. Bush's steps took him next to the mainmast, and he turned to inspect it's length as well. Maybe six feet above where Hornblower's head had hung was a splintered dent in the hardwood.

So he had been wrong in his orders to Orrock. 'Aim high'. Bush closed his eyes in anguish. It wasn't _he_ who had saved the captain that night, it was luck. Bush turned morosely to the rear companionway. He was going to do _something _right, God dammit, even if it was only a fruitless search of that bloody vessel!

When Bush returned to the _Hotspur_ he wanted nothing more than to seek out Wallis and his dear patient, but duty again prevented him from that indulgence. His first priority could only be to insure that the _Hotspur_ was safe from the shoals and safe from attack. They _must_ get clear of the Goulet.

"Take us west by northwest, Mr. Prowse. I think we've drifted a fair bit southwest since we hove."

"Yes, sir," Prowse agreed in a flat tone, as if he took Bush's comment as a personal insult, "The current had a right go at us while you were away."

Bush grunted. '_While you were away_' _indeed_. "Well then you will not object to taking us north now, Mr. Prowse. _If you please_."

"Aye aye, sir." There might have been the hint of an apology in that tacit response, but if there was it was faint. For a brief, brief moment Bush thought of the french fishermen in the that first longboat; but the time had long passed when the _Hotspur_ would have had a chance of capturing them before they made land. No, there would be no further chase that night. Bush waited until the yards were properly swung forward, and then he finally went below. His feet brought him without thought to the captain's door, for somehow he knew that that was where he would find his friend. Wallis might vaunt his surgery, but Bush knew that Doughty at least would demand that privacy, even if Hornblower was incapable of ordering it himself.

He had heard no word from Doughty or Wallis upon reclaiming the _Hotspur_'s deck, so he told himself that Hornblower could not be dead. Yet it was fear which caused him to hesitate ever so slightly before giving a peremptory knock and entering the cabin. He pushed his emotion aside. Doughty looked up as he entered, and his servant's mask did nothing to allay Bush's trepidation.

"How is he?"

It was Wallis, of course, who answered, "He's in a bad way." Bush approached the bed. Hornblower had been stripped of his clothes and positioned on his stomach. Blankets had been piled on his legs, and Doughty had placed warm water bottles strategically around the captain's torso to bring up his body temperature while they worked. And 'work' was the appropriate term. Hornblower's back was criss-crossed with deep gashes that Bush recognized all too readily as having come from a cat o' nine tails. There were so many grooves spanning Hornblower's bony shoulders and that it was impossible to guess how many lashes he had received. More than twenty, certainly. Maybe more than fifty. He could see in many places that the marks had penetrated to the muscle, the captain's thinness giving him no protection against the bite of the cat's leather teeth. But almost as horrifying as these lacerations, no, _more_ horrifying for it's implication, was the almost greenish tint visible on the edges of the wounds. There was yellow puss oozing out of partially healed scabs, and Bush was certain that if he put his nose to it he'd smell corruption. Infection could easily kill a man, and often did. It was too ingrained a reality of sea life for Bush not to know the danger that that foulness portended.

In a dizzying vision he recalled rubbing harsh circles across Hornblower's back to work some warmth back into his flesh. With a frown of self recrimination Bush acknowledged that perhaps it was a blessing Hornblower had been senseless.

Wallis and Doughty had strips of clean bandages between them, and a bucket of vinegar. They had clearly been cleaning the wounds as best they could, but there was only so much that could be done, now that the infection had taken hold.

"What else?" Bush's voice was quiet and resigned. If the bastards had taken a cat to an captain of His Majesty's Royal Navy, a breach of all the rules of war, he had no doubt that they would not limit themselves in their cruelty.

"He's covered with bruises and scuffs and scrapes, and his skin is . . . rough. Like it's been wind burned, except it's not just on his face and hands."

Bush could see now as he looked closer that what was visible of Hornblower's skin-on his arms and unbloodied back, was red, like someone had taken a sander to it.

"But it's his fever I'm worried about," Wallis continued. "I don't know if it's from the infection or from the cold 'e had before 'e was taken, but he's too thin and weak to survive a long illness. And 'e was too cold when we was brought him in. I won't know 'til morning whether his fingers came through without frostbite. You can see from his wrists that 'e was bound tight, and between the freezing air and the poor circulation . . ." Wallis shrugged.

Bush's eyes wandered now to those hands. Hornblower's arms were awkwardly splayed, his right hand by his waist and his left, the one closer to Bush, by his face. Bush was overwhelmed with sorrow at the thought of those beautiful hands being marred by the loss of even a finger, let alone _several_ fingers; they could be destroyed completely. He reached down and clutched Hornblower's left hand in his own, feeling the long fingers between his gnarled ones and marveling at the surprisingly soft palm. How had he forgotten how smooth the captain's hands always seemed to be, regardless of the abuse they sustained? He'd met no seaman with softer hands.

"And there's uh . . . there's something else, sir."

Wallis's hesitation brought Bush's head up. "What?"

Wallis hesitated a moment more, but experienced doctor that he was, he was too accustomed to all manner of injury to be long awkward on the subject. "There was blood on his buttocks and thighs, sir, if you catch my meaning."

"What?" Bush's mind was not moving rapidly enough to immediately understand the implication of those words, but some part of him must have recognized their import, for he felt a growing horror rise up in his chest.

Wallis took his exclamation for a question and elaborated. "He was sodomized, sir."

Bush expected himself to feel nauseous, or weak kneed, or despairing at this revelation, but while all of these lurked behind the curtain of his heart, his single greatest emotion was anger. A fiery, burning rage that made him wish the _Terre Haute_ was not now filling with water, so he could set it now alight with the power of his rising fury alone. But the _Terre Haute_ was a doomed hulk, long behind their keel, and Bush could do nothing but clench his fists and tighten his jaw, and wish those damn pirate frogs to hell and beyond.

"Is there . . . permanent . . damage?" He forced his voice into unnatural flatness to continue the questioning he knew was necessary.

"I don't think so, no. But if there is, it's inside, and trying to fix it would probably only cause more damage. In my experience it's best just to let it lay."

_In my experience . . . _Bush was not ignorant of the inevitable consequence of shoving a hundred or more men onto a small ship and putting them to sea for several months at a time. But he supposed he had never given it much thought, either. Article twenty-nine made sodomy punishable by death, and it was not in his character to seek out death-in himself or in others.

"Very well. Has he been unconscious this whole time?"

"He made some protests when we were cleaning him up, particularly down _there_, but it's been unintelligible. Between fever and fatigue, I wouldn't expect him to wake for some time, if-if-" Wallis stopped himself from saying '_if he wakes at all'_, but Bush felt the words all the same.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just what you're doing now, sir," Wallis looked down, and Bush, following his gaze, saw that he still held Hornblower's hand. "We've been wiping his back with vinegar, and it hasn't been too comfortable. It might ease his pain a little to have something to hold onto."

Bush thought that it might do _him_ more good than Hornblower, but he stole a chair from the captain's table and positioned himself by Hornblower's head. He stayed there for three bells. At first he sat stiffly, afraid any movement would upset his friend, but he was too tired to maintain his tense posture for long. And soon he had no mind for such things, for as Wallis and Doughty continued their ministrations, he felt a pull on his hand. He was so surprised by the sensation that he almost released his palm, but quickly he realized its origin and he squeezed back. A moment later he heard a weak moan. The effect on Bush was a torrent of emotions he buried within himself. He was ecstatic in that first second—beyond joyful—because any response from Hornblower was an indication of life, and (to Bush's mind) will. But it was a simultaneously agonizing sound, for nothing could convey suffering and pain like the sonorous wail of a human voice.

Bush stayed through the entirety of this uncomfortable cleaning operation, and he stayed long after. Wallis had left immediately, as had Doughty, though Bush suspected that was more to give him privacy then to because he truly _wished_ to leave. Three bells after he'd descended the companionway, Bush himself finally departed. He had begun to nod off, and he feared he might fall forward on top of his friend if he truly fell asleep. He was leaning rather precariously in his chair, and it would be a simple thing to unbalance himself mid-snore.

His movements were slow as he rose and gently placed Hornblower's hand on the cot. He tried his best to muffle his steps as he walked to the door, and opened the door slowly to prevent its creaking. It was ridiculous that he should fear waking the captain—the captain was not asleep, he was unconscious—but Bush could not control this natural instinct to be quiet around the sickly. He liked to think that the captain was merely in a deep healing sleep, and if he was roused prematurely form that rest, Bush didn't know what would happen. He returned to his berth.

It was not empty.

"What are you doing here, Black?" Bush's surprise and sleepy anxiety made the question harsher than he had intended.

Black was unperturbed. "I got somethin' from them frenchies, but I didn't think it right to give it to ya' with the other men lookin' on."

Bush narrowed his eyes to force them into focus. He saw now that Black held a gray bundle in his arms.

"Well what is it?"

Black cocked his head as if surprised by Bush's lack of recognition, but he pulled up the gray mass of cloth with his right hand, while his left held on to something that looked black when it was clear of it's swaddling cover.

"They're the captain's, sir."

Of course they were. Black held in his hands Hornblower's great coat and hat. But why had Black concealed these from the crew? While it may cost Hornblower a small bit of pride to have his hat stolen form him, it was hardly worth the trifle of subterfuge . . . Bush narrowed his eyes further, and felt his nose twitch of its own volition. There was vomit on the great coat; it's putrid oder was plain now. Was that blood? And the bicorn, upon closer inspection, was battered and squashed, as if several people had sat upon it, and strangled it until it bore only a cursory resemblance to it's original shape.

The sight unsettled Bush, as it apparently had Black. There was a burning in Bush's nose and eyes that he fought to suppress.

"Give the coat to Doughty to clean. I'll hold on to the hat."

Black didn't question this sentiment, just said "aye aye, sir", and handed Bush the bent, felted mass. When Bush's door clicked shut, Bush sank on to his hammock, his feet still on the ground and the hat still in his hands. He had pushed back his emotions all day as a necessity to maintain his wits during the _Hotspur_'s desperate search; even alone with Hornblower, for that was an even more dangerous situation still. But now, alone in his berth, this final token of the previous day's horror before him, he was overwhelmed. The burning in his nose and eyes grew to a stinging in the creases of his lids, and with a gasp of air Bush was suddenly sobbing. He pushed the crushed hat to his face to muffle the sound, but he could not stop the tears from pouring down his cheeks, and he could not halt the shuddering breaths that shook his entire body with their intensity. It was a cry born at least in part of stress and fatigue, yet as Bush cried he could only hear Prowse's voice ringing through his head, again and again. '_We'll see if there's a captain left, after what those devil's 'l do to him'._


	6. Chapter 6

**Part VI **(3800 words, PG13)

The days that followed were hard for everyone, and if Bush were not such a practical, stalwart man he might have caved under the strain. But Bush had always been blessed with a straight-forward view of duty, and despite that first nights unsettling display of emotion, he forced himself to approach each problem as it came. His biggest two concerns were for the captain's health and for the health of the ship. Their race against the wind in the Goulet had put too much stress on the splintered foremast, and the cracks in its wooden column had grown significantly—a development they had only noticed in the light of morning. The mast was now braced by two spaced girdles, but it would not last a stiff gale. The captain . . . well, the captain was in worse shape than the mast. As the doctor had predicted, Hornblower's fever deepened, and the infection in his back spread. He had not roused since his rescue, and Bush could only stand by and watch as his rail-thin body weakened with each hour of sickness.

By the time they reached the Point of Saint-Mathieu, Bush had no doubts as to their course. West by northwest would take them past the isles and to the fleet at Ushant, but Bush turned the _Hotspur_ north—north along the coast of France and then north by northeast, to Plymouth. The intermittent west wind during the day yielded an average headway of just over four knots, which made the tack back to England a three day journey. Bush would ordinarily have been content, if not quite pleased by this headway, but with the captain wasting away and the foremast shivering, he found the journey interminable long. When the _Hotspur_ finally sailed into port, Bush was positively heavy with worry. He found himself pacing the deck in a very Hornblower-like manner as he waited for an acknowledging signal from the flag ship, and when Foreman relayed the anticipated 'come aboard', he was over the side and rowing to the _Hibernia_ without a second lost.

The flag lieutenant was on deck to greet him when he climbed up the _Hibernia_'s side. He looked surprised to see a fellow lieutenant instead of a captain, and Bush worried that his harried countenance gave too much away.

"Is Captain Hornblower . . ." The officer let the question dangle, as if expecting Bush to fill in the silence.

"Captain Hornblower is unable to attend the admiral. If you could show me the way?" Bush none too gently reminded the lieutenant of his duty.

"Certainly." The lieutenant looked amusedly curious, much to Bush's further irritation, but he lead Bush to the rear gallery without additional conversation.

Cornwallis looked even more surprised than the flag lieutenant to see Bush enter the cabin rather than the expected Hornblower. Bush caught the admiral looking hard at the only other man in the room-a stout, middle aged man whom Bush assumed was the flag captain from his epaulette. How Collins could be expected to know anything of the _Hotspur_'s activities was beyond Bush. Bush was too nervous to attend to such observations in any case, finding himself in such august company. It came to him that the last time he'd spoken to an admiral it had been with Hornblower, in the Long Rooms in London.

The flag lieutenant saved Bush the effort of an introduction.

"This is lieutenant Bush of the _Hotspur_, sir. It appears the captain is unable to attend you."

Bush inwardly seethed, despite his nerves. The way that nitty put it, one would think the captain was simply not inclined to make the journey

"Indeed," said Cornwallis disapprovingly, "And why not?"

Cornwallis had looked to the flag lieutenant for this response, but the flag lieutenant turned to Bush.

"Captain Hornblower is grievously ill and wounded, sir."

"Ill and wounded? What from?" Cornwallis was frowning, and Bush was satisfied to see some genuine concern in the blue eyes that so mirrored his own.

"That is what I've come to report, sir, among other things," Bush said hesitantly, "Captain Hornblower was . . . well, he was kidnapped, sir, and tortured by French spies."

"Kidnapped and tortured? Good Heavens, man! Is he alright?"

Bush refrained from pointing out the ridiculousness of that question, given his previous statement. One did not correct admirals. "Yes, sir—that is, no, sir. The captain's wounds are infected and he's been running a bad fever for three days. He's been insensible since we rescued him."

"What was done to him?"

"I don't entirely know, sir, as he's been in no state to tell me. He was flogged, badly, that much is obvious. And he was tied to the masthead when we found him, without a coat." Bush did not hesitate in offering this information, but he did not at any time consider revealing more, respect for admirals not withstanding.

"_Flogged_?" That was the first word he'd heard out of Collins.

"Yes, sir. With a cat. And he wasn't tended, so the marks grew infected."

"The rules of war don't allow for-"

"Clearly the rules of war did not apply, or were ignored." Cornwallis interrupted Collins, his voice frigid. He looked to Bush, "you said they were spies?"

"They claimed to be fishermen, and were aboard a proper fishing vessel, but I can't think what else they could be but pirates or spies. I have no doubt they were selling information to Boney." Bush could not restrain the righteous anger that swelled in his breast at the thought of those treacherous frogs.

"Is Hornblower expected to live?"

"He's at even odds, sir, so the doctor tells me. If his fever breaks he should recover, but if not . . . he's lost a lot of weight, sir."

Cornwallis nodded in acknowledgement. Illness ate away the flesh of a man faster than privation, and when there was none left to eat, there'd be nothing left of the man.

"How did this contrive to happen, Lieutenant eh, eh . . ."

"Bush, sir," the flag lieutenant supplied.

"How did this contrive to happen, Lieutenant Bush?"

Bush had no expectation that a Vice Admiral of the White would ever remember his name, and so took no offense at this lapse. "Perhaps I could give you my full report, sir, so you can have it in sequence?"

Cornwallis agreed, and Bush recounted all of the recent activities of the _Hotspur, _starting with her night patrol of the Goulet via the Little Girls. Cornwallis and Collins were gratifyingly appreciative of their efforts to block an Ireland invasion force, and of the shoaling of a French frigate ("Damn fine work by Hornblower!" Cornwallis had exclaimed). They were also surprised to discover the source of Hornblower's information. Bush could supply fewer details of the captain's abduction, relying as he was on the combined accounts of Poole and the hands, but he offered all proper justifications regarding his actions during the resulting chase and night assault.

"It appears the French have treated you infamously, sir," concluded Cornwallis when the report was finished. "But it was well done, your rescue operation. And well done, too, to return here instead of reporting to Chambers at Ushant. You said you'd be wanting a doctor? To check over Hornblower?"

"Yes, sir." Bush's report had ended with the explanation that he'd come to Plymouth in part to acquire the opinion of a more experienced physician.

"Hmm," the older man grunted, "Well you have my leave to contact the shore, and to begin repairs and revittling. And I'm sending my own surgeon over with you now. Never hurts to have too many doctors."

"Aye aye, sir," Bush automatically responded, though he had his doubts as to the veracity of that particular statement.

"And you'll notify me if anything changes, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good. I'll send a boat over with orders to that effect and with my surgeon. Would you care for a glass of wine now, before you leave?"

Bush left the _Hibernia_ as quickly as he'd come.

HHHHHHHHHH

It was dark when Hornblower opened his eyes. He was on his back and laying on something soft. And he was warm. Those two sensations—a soft ground and complete warmth, were so out of place with his last complete memories that he strained his eyes to make out any hint of his surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out a pale sheen of light on the floor to his side. Moonlight. Through a cabin hatch. _His_ cabin hatch. He was on the _Hotspur_?

He tried to roll his legs off the bed and sit up so he could better assess his surroundings, but the movement elicited an involuntary groan from his lips and he stopped with his legs half off the cot. But he could not just lay there and wait for the world to move—he w_ould _not. So he steeled himself and slowly continued to push himself up. These actions precipitated another groan and then a series of whimpers, much to his horror. Despite the discomfort however, he succeeded in forcing himself into a sitting position and was squinting across his cabin when he heard footsteps in the companionway. Then his door opened and lantern light spilled onto the floor.

"Sir? Are you awake, sir?"

It was Doughty's voice. Hornblower had not quite believed until that moment that he was really on the _Hotspur_, safely away from the nightmare of the _Terre Haute_.

"Yes," he responded, his voice coming out in a weak croak.

Doughty set his lantern down on the table, then moved to light the others in Hornblower's cabin. As the room slowly illuminated, the steward noticed that the captain was sitting up, and he quickly protested. "Sir, you shouldn't be up, sir. Why don't you lay back down, sir?"

Hornblower would have none of it, "How long have I been here, Doughty?"

"On the _Hotspur_, sir?"

"Yes." Hornblower was gratified to hear more strength in his voice as his ire rose.

"Almost three days, sir. We're at Plymouth, sir."

"three days?" Hornblower was aghast. His growing awareness brought with it vague snatches of memory that he might be able to attribute to time lost, but _three days_?

"Yes, sir. You had a bad fever. It only just broke this night, sir." Doughty, having fully lit the cabin, was now standing before Hornblower at almost full attention.

"Well what time is it now?"

"Near two o'clock in the morning, sir."

Hornblower 'humf'ed, and Doughty took the cessation of questions as an opportunity to ask one of his own. "Can I get you something to eat, sir? Doctor says you're to eat as much as your able."

Hornblower gave the matter more thought than he felt it deserved. But he _was_ hungry, when the idea was put before him, and the gnawing of his stomach sealed the decision.

"Yes, Doughty. I'll have some dinner. And coffee, or whatever you can scrounge up."

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir-" Doughty seemed to hesitate on the verge of saying something. Maybe the patient wasn't supposed to have coffee? Or there was none? Hornblower laughed to himself, but he knew Doughty would figure some clever way of satisfying every party. Apparently Doughty came to the same conclusion, for he said "Yes, sir," one last time and then departed. It never occurred to Hornblower that Doughty's hesitation may stem from other, less trivial concerns than coffee. Only nine hours before he'd been bathing Hornblower's body with frigid sea water to bring his fever down, at the recommendation of Cornwalli's surgeon. Only six hours had passed since the captain's fever had finally tapered off.

Not more than five minutes could have gone bay after Doughty's exit before there came a knock on his door. Hornblower ignored it, knowing that Doughty would just enter regardless, but when the door remained closed he forced himself to raise his voice, even as he rested his forehead in his left hand.

"Come in."

He was tired, and it annoyed him that he was tired. He had been sleeping for three days, for heaven's sake; he didn't deserve to be tired.

It was Bush who entered the cabin, and it was a mark of Hornblower's fatigue that he had not anticipated this visit.

"Sir?"

Bush was in his uniform, but it had clearly been rapidly assembled, for he was missing both his stock and his hat. He was peering anxiously at Hornblower, and Hornblower felt uncomfortably like a doll on display in a store window.

"Mr. Bush." Hornblower said, returning Bush's gaze from between his fingers.

"How are you feeling, sir?"

Hornblower narrowed his eyes. He was tired, achy, and in pain, and he was certain he looked it. Perhaps this was Bush's way of telling him to stop being a stubborn fool and lay down. Hornblower decided he would not respond. Indeed, it was time he take command of the conversation.

"Report, Mr. Bush. What happened after I was taken?"

Hornblower was again reminded of a parent fretting over a sick child by the sour look on Bush's face, but Bush, ever the proper first officer, did as ordered. He kept to the facts, and in a mere five minutes of speech he outlined the _Hotspur's_ hunting plan and it's success, the night attack in the Goulet, and the boarding of _La_ _Terre Haute_. He ended by describing their slow haul to Plymouth and his report to the admiral.

"You did not check in with the fleet at Ushant?" It was clear that Bush had not, so Bush understood Hornblower's real question to be 'why did you not check in with the fleet at Ushant'?

"I deemed the damage to the ship, and the matter of your health, sir, too important to delay our return to Plymouth. After the strain of our chase, the foremast again splintered, and I did not think she could survive a gale. And Wallis believed there may be better treatments for your fever available at port. I—I thought it worth the broach in protocol, sir."

"And the admiral agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm." Hornblower did not know if _he_ did. At least six days had been lost of their watch on the Goulet—three to tack to port, and three to return-and at a time when the French fleet may be rethinking its strategy. He did not know if he would be so circumspect were he in Cornwallis's shoes. Then again, there was the damage to the ship to consider . . . perhaps Bush had been right. Perhaps.

Hornblower would have continued his questioning, which had successfully distracted him from his growing fatigue, but Doughty entered then, tray in hand. He set his burden on the table, and Hornblower was reminded of his hunger by the twitching of his nose when the succulent aroma of boiled lamb wafted his way. Bush and Doughty appeared to notice his interest, and Hornblower looked away from the table to disguise his appetite. Yet he had every intention of eating at that table, so even as he averted his gaze he tried to position himself closer to the edge of his cot, doing his best to stifle any sign of the pain even this small motion brought him.

Doughty approached. "Shall I help you to the table, sir, or would you like to eat in bed?"

Hornblower, having already set his mind on the table, had not even considered the alternative. "The table," he ordered.

Doughty nodded and Bush looked on worriedly as the steward wrapped an arm around Hornblower's waist and Hornblower lifted his arm over Doughty's back. Except almost as soon as this positioning was complete, Hornblower was pushing Doughty violently away. Somehow with his fatigue and general maziness, Hornblower had not appreciated that he was naked beneath his blankets. When Doughty had gripped him around the waist he'd felt goosebumps raise on his exposed skin, and a wave of revulsion shoot up his stomach. He could have retched. But it all happened so fast, this rebellion of his body, that he was quite as surprised as Doughty when his arms came up and shoved the older man back with as much force as he could muster. Doughty did not quite lose his footing, but he had to splay his arms to maintain his balance. Hornblower could feel himself trembling, and his lungs seemed to only want to suck in short gasps of air. He felt betrayed by his body, for he could not explain these reactions. He could guess their cause well enough, but he felt so strongly that the motion of his limbs should be dictated by his mind alone and not frightened instinct that this did not seem reason enough.

Bush was standing before him now, and Hornblower forced his recalcitrant lungs to slow their huffing until his breathing approached a regular beat. He would not meet Bush's eyes as he said, "I shall eat on the bed, Doughty."

"Yes, sir," Doughty replied, giving no indication that he'd just been struck.

Bush, still standing stiffly before him, had his arms outstretched, like he wanted to give Hornblower his hand, or help in some way, but didn't know how he'd be received. "Sir-," he began, but Hornblower cut him off.

"That will be all, Mr. Bush."

"Sir, I-"

"You're _dismissed_, Mr. Bush."

Bush swallowed his words, his face containing some emotion Hornblower could not identify. It was not quite that of a worried parent, as before-it was too anguished to just be worried, and too passionate to be that of a parent-but Hornblower would not hazard to guess it's portent. Then Bush stood, and without looking back he left the cabin.

It was with difficulty then that Hornblower forced himself to eat the brothy lamb stew. His appetite had quite been ruined by the whole episode, and it was more for Doughty's sake than his own that he kept the spoon moving from the bowl to his mouth until the bowl was empty. When that task was completed, Hornblower carefully lowered himself back on to his stomach and allowed Doughty to gently pull up his blankets. Then Doughty left and Hornblower lay there, weary and frightened in the dark. He found himself unable to sleep despite his fatigue. His mind had too much to take in, to process, to dwell on. He remembered what was done to him. Some men were struck with amnesia after traumatic events, but he was not to be so lucky. He remembered everything. Some of it as if it were a dream, and all the worse because he knew it was not.

He recalled the harsh sting of leather on his back. He had thought that eventually the pain would dull as his nerves became deadened by the stimulation, but that had proved untrue—a white lie the officers told themselves to assuage their guilt when they meted out punishments on the gratings. He'd felt every blow, each of the nine leather tongues licking his back in a shockingly painful slap that left his mind too stupefied to keep count, but fearful enough to cringe from the next blow.

He remembered the shock of sudden submersion in freezing water and the sting of salt against his flayed back. They had dragged him behind the ship and watching him squirm at the end of his line like it was a yachting game. He had struggled, twisting and turning and pulling back on the rope that bound his arms, so as to keep himself on his stomach and save his back the pain of the ocean scouring his skin, all the while fighting the rising terror that he would be eaten by a shark—torn limb from limb in violent mutilation before he perished. He wished now that there _had_ been a shark. It would have saved him from the worst.

For he remembered other things, unspeakable things, after night had fallen. They had thought to shame him by the light of a candle, and they had succeeded. And he had been too exhausted to even fight back. He had tried, God had he tried, but his struggles had been patted away like so much dust on a coat. And then he had just lain there, too weak even to vomit his revulsion or emit more than whimpers of pain, and when they had left him alone he had sobbed in humiliation. The pirate captain had come then, for he had not stooped to performing the act himself. He asked again for information, threatening more pain, more abasement. But the act had already been done. Hornblower had already lost his pride; there was no point in spilling his government's secrets, few that he knew, when he was _already_ less than a man. Even to save himself from further disgrace. "Damn you to hell," he'd spat out. And they had tied him to the mainmast.

Yet there was always room in his head and heart for new fears, even with these horrid memories taking him in their grip. Who among his crew now knew what had been done to him? As Bush had stormed _La Terre Haute_, had his captors jeered their conquest? Had the doctor given him a full inspection? He _knew_ that Bush knew. His first lieutenant, his friend, had never been able to conceal his emotions, and there was too much concern, too much awkward sympathy underlaying his dry recount for Hornblower to dismiss. And if Bush knew, it was likely that Doughty and the doctor knew as well. And Bush had . . . God, Bush had reported to Cornwallis. If the admiralty . . . just how complete had that report been? He knew there were some among the admirals who thought sodomy was contagious. That victims should be punished alike with perpetrators. It was a frequent enough occurrence, of course, particularly among pirates, that the majority of ranking officers viewed the matter with more sympathy, but Hornblower could not stand the thought of his name being tainted so. And then there was Maria, and his son, if he was born and healthy.

He should call Bush back, question him, demand-

No. He could not. Despite his earlier assertion, despite everything his mind told him, his heart wanted to believe that there was a chance Bush did not know. As long as there was silence between them, Hornblower could pretend that his friend still did not. It was a false comfort, and a small one at that, but he clung to it with a desperation he could only despise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part VII** (5400 words)

Hornblower awoke the next morning to Doughty gently shaking his shoulder through the blanket. He flinched at the touch, even indirect, then berated himself for this continued lack of control over his own body.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but the doctor's coming aboard shortly, and I thought you might like some breakfast first."

"Doctor?" Hornblower's voice was half angry, half questioning.

"Yes sir; Mr. Bush-"

"Ah. Yes." He vaguely recalled Bush mentioning a doctor in his report. "He's along side now?"

"Just left the dock, sir. He should be here in about twenty minutes, sir."

"Ha-h'mm." The sound was half a cough, half a clearing of the throat. His head cold, or whatever it was that had caused the tickling in his throat, had not entirely dissipated, and he found comfort now in the useless noise, which he fancied could be interpreted as anything and nothing.

But even he, who disdained small talk and unnecessary words, could not restrain a complaint, "Is this really necessary? My fever has broken, and I would be surprised if a man on this ship didn't know how to treat lash marks." This was an exaggeration of course—there had only been one flogging on board the _Hotspur_ since he'd taken command. But it was rather common knowledge that there _was_ no treatment for lashings, other than salt, vinegar, and wet bandages.

Doughty was diplomatic in his response, "I'm sure that's true, sir. And in that case, it will be a short meeting. Will you have breakfast first, sir?"

"Ha-h'mm. Yes."

ooooooooo

The doctor's visit _was_ mercifully short. He examined Hornblower's back and probed his torso to ensure that the bruising and banging hadn't impaired his organs, tisking in admonition at Hornblower's protruding ribs and sunken stomach. Then he looked down the captain's throat to check for any growths or inflammation. He looked into Hornblower's eyes and proclaimed the sickness nearly gone, then prodded at the large bruise that spanned Hornblower's left check to ensure there wasn't a cracked cheek bone. And then he squeezed and tested each of Hornblower's fingers until he was certain they had not suffered from their exposure to cold and restricted circulation. He did not ask to examine Hornblower below the waste, and Hornblower did not volunteer any information to encourage such an inspection. Indeed, Hornblower was too intent on fighting his bodies reflexes and hiding his discomfort at all this touching and prodding to offer much in the way of conversation at all. Blessedly the whole exchange lasted no more than a quarter of an hour, and Hornblower ended by offering his apologies for the solicitude of his second in command. The doctor was all cordiality, apparently enjoying the travel across the bay, and so Hornblower was satisfied that no one had been greatly importuned, except perhaps himself. He could not know that this was the third doctor to see him, counting Wallis and the admiral's surgeon.

As soon as the doctor was over the side and well on his way, Hornblower informed Doughty that he would be going on deck. Doughty immediately protested, and was so affected by his worry that he stooped so far as to invent excuses for why Hornblower could not possibly go on deck.

"But sir, your clothes are in no shape to be worn. Surely it would be better if-"

Hornblower, in turn, took undue pleasure in forcing Doughty, through glares and orders, to submit to his will.

"Are you telling me, Doughty, that in the three days I have been bed-ridden you neglected to wash and mend my coat? I admit I am quite amazed. Not characteristic of your usual impressive performance. I would go so far as to say that your negligence is shocking." Hornblower raised an eyebrow in disdainful condescension.

"Oh-no, sir. Your uniform is clean and patched, sir, I only meant, sir, that perhaps you should wait until a new one can be acquired, or until I can install a softer lining to the back so's you don't suffer any discomfort. Beggin' your pardon, Sir."

"I see. Well, Mr. Doughty, much as I appreciate your concern, your efforts will not be necessary. I will have my uniform. Now."

Doughty could only bow to this demand, and he shuffled quickly out the door.

Hornblower took the few moments of solitude this garnered him to rise from his bed and to his feet. He had not stood in . . . was it four days? Five? He had no doubt that he _could_ stand—his will and pride would not permit otherwise; it was his right as captain to pace the deck of his ship, as surely as he wore his bronze epaulette. He found himself, after an initial bout of dizziness, to be thankfully steady on his feet.

Not that he'd been unsure of that result, of course.

He took a few steps across his tiny cabin and found his legs supporting him with only the tiniest of wobbles, and while the movement irritated several of his bruises and pulled slightly on the skin of his back, it was all delightfully tolerable. His pleasure at his body's hardiness brought a smile to Hornblower's lips, a smile Doughty caught as he re-entered the cabin. And at this smile Doughty seemed to lose most of the misgivings he'd clearly been entertaining when first Hornblower voiced his intention.

He made no further protests, and Hornblower was aware of a particular gentleness in Doughty's hands as he helped the captain into his shirt, tights, trousers, and jacket. The coarse shirt rubbed uncomfortably against Hornblower's bandaged skin, and his jacket, tight at the shoulders as military fashion demanded, constricted painfully across his back when he lifted his arms. He almost decided to just leave the jacket unbuttoned and loose, uniform regulations be damned, but dismissed the notion as quickly as it came when he envisioned the eyes of his crew following his open-shirted figure while he paced. Buttons were a necessity. Doughty finished by tying Hornblower's stock, and Hornblower did his best to control the inexplicable revulsion that coiled in his stomach when Doughty's fingers came in contact with the skin of his neck. He would examine that reaction later, when he could think properly.

"Thank you, Doughty."

ooooooooo

It was hard to say who was more surprised to see Hornblower on deck. Cargill, standing by the wheel, stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, and Foreman looked like he might fall from the rigging, stationed as he was to catch the flag signals. Bush all but ran across the deck in his haste to reach the captain, though whether it was to berate him or hover protectively in concern was not immediately apparent from the pace of his strides.

Evidently it was to be a mixture of both. "Sir, you're not well. You should be in bed, resting. Let us handle things up here." He shot Doughty, standing behind Hornblower, a dark look. "Really, sir, I must protest." Hornblower had forced his face into a flat, emotionless mask before mounting the steps to the deck, his dignity as a captain, much damaged, demanding a show of stolidity before the men. But where Doughty's concern had alternately annoyed and amused him, Bush's concern simultaneously humbled and gratified him. There was shame in knowing that the lines of stress marring Bush's face and the bags under those keen blue eyes were caused by him, and yet there was pleasure in knowing that someone cared about Hornblower the man, not just Hornblower the captain. For he could see, from the strain in his movements and the near rudeness of his speech, that Bush was worried right now about his _friend,_ not his superior. These unexpected emotions were more than sufficient to overcome Hornblower's carefully constructed composure, and a sad smile replaced his mask as he acknowledged his lieutenant, "Bush."

Even that did not seem sufficient, particularly after his brusque dismissal the previous night. Hornblower found himself extending his hand and clasping Bush's forearm. The movement pulled on his unforgiving jacket, but it was worth the look of surprised bemusement that suffused Bush's face at the contact.

And then Hornblower's ingrained self-consciousness reasserted itself. "Ha-h'mm." The half cough came naturally as he withdrew his arm from Bush's and worked to subdue his emotions. "I am as well as I can be, Mr. Bush, and I can not possibly confine myself to my cabin indefinitely. I merely wish to walk the deck. I will leave the ship's management in your capable hands. I trust that is acceptable?" The ring of command was back in his voice now, and Bush had very little choice but to reply. "Aye aye, sir." Hornblower fancied he'd caught a slight softening of Bush's eyes, however, and he congratulated himself on easing some of his lieutenant's concern.

The crew and officers seemed to adjust to his presence quickly enough, or they at least had the decency to cease their staring after the first five minutes of his pacing. He was sure he must cut a ridiculous figure; despite his confidence within the confines of his cabin, his steps were stiff and bow-legged, as various bruises and sore muscles made their discomfort known. His hands kept straying to his back, trying to clasp together as in his usual pose, only to be thrust forward again by Hornblower when the movement started pulling on his wounds. Hornblower felt his discomfort must be obvious and laughable, and his only consolation was that Bush and his crew knew better than to comment. It was only after a full ten turns of the deck that Hornblower's thoughts began traveling far and wide enough within the confines of his imagination that his ridiculousness ceased to bother him.

According to Bush's report the night before, Cornwallis had given them leave to resupply while in port and had delayed issuing any real orders until Hornblower's health had improved sufficiently for a proper report. He would have to make that report today, given that he was up and aware. He _should_ be making it _now_. Ordinarily such a report would require a written account to hand over to the admiralty, but as he had accomplished and discovered _nothing_ during his . . . captivity, he thought he could dispense committing anything to paper this once. If they were truly to remain in dock for more than a day, however, word would no doubt get to Maria. She would expect him to visit—and he might have a son, by God. A son! The duality this thought produced was interesting. His curiosity and paternalism engendered a strong desire to see this mysterious progeny, this extension of himself, but, contrastingly, he could not stand the thought of being with Maria. Cloying, doting Maria. She would touch him; cling to him. She would see his back and ask questions. Maybe she would see other things. She would certainly wonder why he did not want to touch her.

These oblique thoughts of intimacy inevitably brought his mind back to the source of his shame and discomfort. His emotions had to be analyzed, reconciled, and filed away; they could not just . . . sit there. It was strange how he had fixated on that _one_ torture, when the others had, physically, been at least as painful—no, _more_ painful. Perhaps that was the difference. He had genuinely feared for his life when they had first stripped him of his shirt and pulled out the cat o' nine tails, and he had certainly feared for life and limb as he was pulled through the icy water at the stern of the ship. Too much of his attention had been devoted to staying alive, and too much of him had been consumed with agony to feel shame, though that had no doubt been there too. But the other . . . he knew he would survive it, and so had time to fully appreciate the humiliation. But is that really what distressed him so? That men had seen him being used by other men, and so would think less of him? He would likely never see any of those damn pirates ever again, so what did it matter what _they_ thought? Was it the helplessness of that moment? His inability to put up a respectable fight? But surely his weakness could be forgiven, tired as he was from his struggles at the end of the rope, and painfully injured as he was from the cat o' nine. Was it the threat to his career and reputation, should the shoddy details of his imprisonment be exposed to the public and admiralty? No, that was just an excuse.

He could not say _what_ disturbed him so intensely about the incident, and his inability to account for his feelings was almost as horrible a misery, in its own way, as the feelings themselves. For he had always thought himself a practical man, driven by logic and pragmatism, rather than instinct and feeling_s_. He had worked so hard to suppress any show of emotion in his role as an officer, and particularly as a captain, that he had begun to see himself as a man unmoved by such human weaknesses. But now here he was, completely overcome by intense emotions that he could not triangulate the source of. Emotions that he could not even fully identify. Emotions buried so deep within him that they had power over his mind and body. It was amazing and horrifying that something he couldn't understand could control him so.

And it was interesting, too, that he could touch Bush and feel no aversion. Perhaps it was just because Hornblower was the one initiating the contact, or perhaps his hands were not afflicted with the same sensitivity as the rest of him. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was because even his subconscious recognized Bush as a friend?

Another thirty minutes of pacing the deck, back and forth, back and forth, brought no further insight into his turmoil, and so, his legs aching, he stopped.

"Mr. Foreman!" He yelled into the shrouds.

"S-Sir?"

"Signal to flag, if you please. 'Captain requests permission to come aboard'."

"Aye aye, sir," Foreman replied hesitantly, and Hornblower caught him looking to someone behind him as if for permission.

Sure enough here came Bush. "Sir, you should rest before you go. There's no need-"

"It is my duty to report, Mr. Bush. And now that I am up and about, I hardly think the admiral would appreciate any delay.

"But sir, you've only just recovered from your fever, and your injuries-"

"What about my injuries, Mr. Bush?"

Bush looked like he'd swallowed a bad bite of beef. "Sir, I only meant that the admiral will not begrudge you a small delay."

Hornblower good mood upon rising had completely evaporated during his walk, so that Bush's solicitude, which had earlier gratified him, now merely irritated him. Bush was like a mother hen guarding her brood, which left Hornblower feeling like a child, and a fragile, recalcitrant child at that.

So he ignored Bush and turned again to Foreman. "I've given you my orders, Mr. Foreman. Is there a reasonable explanation for your delay?"

Bush could only look on in frustrated worry as the signal flags were exchanged between the _Hotspur_ and _Hibernia_, and as the flag indicating 'Permission granted' rose from the _Hibernia_'s topmast. His voice was hard, almost angry, as he shouted the orders necessary to launch the gig, and as Hornblower slowly climbed over the side Bush stooped to make one last plea, "Please don't stay long, sir."

ooooooooo

When Hornblower was escorted to the great stern cabin of the _Hibernia_, he was met with the same assemblage as when he'd been forced to run to Plymouth when the _Hotspur_ had exhausted her water supply. Collins, the Fleet Captain, was sitting on the near side of the large, rectangular center table, the flag lieutenant next to him. Cornwallis was sitting too, but on the far side of the table so that he was facing the door when Hornblower entered. Upon seeing Hornblower's face and stilted gait, however, he rose to his feet. His keen blue eyes raked over Hornblower's body, before coming to rest on the junior captain's face. His mouth was parted in unconscious surprise, and he seemed to want to say something, but was restraining himself. Hornblower had not looked in the mirror since his return to the _Hotspur_, knowing that he would not like what he saw, but he thought, at that moment, that perhaps he should have. Then Cornwallis walked around the table and extended his hand.

"Good to have you with us, Captain Hornblower." Hornblower met the hand with his own. It was a great compliment the admiral was paying him by rising to shake his hand. Suddenly he felt Cornwallis's hand stiffen. He looked down to see what had caught the great man's attention and found that it was his own arm that was the distraction. The motion of extending his hand had pulled back the cuffs of his coat and shirt, revealing the lurid purple skin of his wrists. He hadn't even noticed the rope marks when Doughty had helped him dress that morning. He recalled then that his face was similarly disfigured, which would account for the stares of the other men in the room.

He withdrew his hand quickly, with an expressive, "Ha-h'mm," and Cornwallis seemed to collect himself.

"Take a seat, Hornblower, take a seat. Can we get you anything? Breakfast, perhaps? A more comfortable chair?" He turned to his side and grumbled, "We'll have some wine and cheese!", flicking his fingers at a footman who had been standing out of Hornblower's line of sight until that moment.

Hornblower sat in the proffered chair and found it's padded seat comfortable enough. Even so he sat stiffly, for he feared to let his back rest against the chair's backing. He struggled for a response, "I am fine, thank you. I dined before coming over." It had the merit of being the truth, while disguising the fact that he was unsure his stomach could process the admiral's fancy delicacies, unused as it was to eating much of anything for the past two weeks.

"Are you certain, sir? You look like you could use a good meal, if you don't my saying so." Cornwallis was again giving him an all to critical assessment, and for a second Hornblower contemplated retorting that he _did_ mind the admiral saying so. He could not know how thin he looked to the officers before him. Even had Hornblower looked in the mirror he would not have seen it, for he had grown too accustomed to the sunken look of his cheeks and the pointedness of his chin. If pressed he may have admitted to being a bit thin. He could never appreciate that to Cornwallis and Collins, who had not seen him for over a month, he looked gaunt to point of being skeletal. His skin was pulled tight over his features, giving the almost grotesque impression of a death's head. The bluish purple bruise that marred most of the left side of his face only added to the effect, so that Hornblower was almost painful to look upon.

Hornblower had no such self-perception, and so his reply remained somewhat terse, "Thank you, but I am not hungry."

Cornwallis frowned, but it was worried, not angry, "I see. And are you well?"

It seemed a ridiculous query, given Hornblower's obvious state, but Hornblower took it as an unspoken questioning of his fitness for command. "I am well enough, sir. My fever broke last night, and the doctor believes that my sickness is past."

"And your injuries?"

"The infection in my wounds seems to have passed with the fever, and the rest is merely bruises."

Cornwallis nodded in apparent satisfaction, but there was a bleakness in Hornblower's eyes that hadn't been there before, and it was clear to everyone present that the young commander was _not_ alright. Hornblower, not knowing the true direction of Cornwallis's thoughts, noticed only that the nod set Cornwallis's horse-hair wig slightly askew. He drew strength from the idea that he was not the only one in the room who looked a touch of the ridiculous.

"I'm glad to hear that, Hornblower. You're lieutenant's report last night had us fearing the worst. But fevers are a fickle thing, a fickle thing indeed."

Hornblower inclined his head in agreement.

The footman returned then, bearing a bottle of wine and a fruit and cheese platter, and Hornblower forced himself to nibble at a few pieces of the proffered display so as to not insult his host. The wine was a lighter red—an appropriate choice for a morning aperitif, and Hornblower sipped it slowly.

"Is there anything you'd like to contribute to your lieutenant's report? A capable man, that lieutenant of yours."

"Yes, sir. And no, sir, I believe Lieutenant Bush covered all the salient points. I discovered nothing of consequence during my captivity, except, perhaps, that Napoleon is desperate for intelligence, and the people of France desperate for any spare franc." Hornblower knew he sounded bitter as he said the words, but he could no more disguise it than he could pretend enthusiasm for the table cheese.

He saw Cornwallis's eye's catch Collin's, just for a moment, and he deduced that it must be a signal, for it was Collin's who continued the questioning.

"What did they want from you?"

"Information. They wanted to know the contents of my orders, and which ships and captains were deployed to this fleet. They wanted to know what we knew of the French fleet and its movements. They wanted to know as much as possible."

"They were French spies, then?"

"Not exactly, sir. I think they truly were just fishermen, most of them. Very desperate fishermen and a few genuinely bad men." Hornblower said this bitterly too, for it would be easier if he could label them all pirates and hate them dispassionately. "They said that Bonaparte, or the French navy, in any case, would pay for information. Pay more than they could ever get from selling fish. When they encountered the _Hotspur_ so close to the shoals, they thought it a sudden windfall."

"So the rules of war didn't apply?"

"It would seem not." The look Hornblower leveled at Collins would have deterred any further questioning in a less self-assured man, but Collin's ignored it.

"So what did you tell them then?"

Hornblower understood then. Cornwallis needed to know if any state secrets had been compromised. He needed to know what the French knew. And, not wanting to be rude himself, he had relegated this questioning to Collins. And Collin's, in his arrogant ignorance, was making the assumption that of course Hornblower had talked, it was merely a question of how much.

"I told them they could go to hell."

"You mean to say that you told them nothing?" Collin's was openly skeptical, and Cornwallis looked uncomfortable at his captain's rudeness.

As the silence grew and Hornblower's expression darkened, the admiral finally intervened, "Come, Hornblower. There's no shame in admitting defeat. _Everyone_ breaks after three days, _everyone_. And you were with them for a day and half. No one will blame you for what resulted, you have my word. It is not of that great a consequence. We just need to know what was said so that we can adjust our maneuvers accordingly."

The sympathy in Cornwallis's voice only fueled Hornblower's anger. It was ridiculous how men offered condolence for things they could not possibly understand, even Vice Admirals of the White.

But these were not men to be convinced by anger, and nor was Hornblower.

"I am a man of logic, sir." He said, then forced himself to draw a breath. "I deduced, almost from the moment of my capture, that if I spoke it would do nothing to help my situation. As a junior captain, I know little of consequence, but these men would not have believed that. They would think that I knew more; that I would tell more if they could only pry it from me. If I was to be tortured either way, then I preferred to be tortured as a loyal subject of England." Hornblower had been looking Cornwallis in the eyes, and now his gaze drifted to the wall, to nothingness. "And after . . . well, after a point, you begin to tell yourself that it cannot possibly get worse. That they cannot possibly injure you further." Hornblower was made aware, with this last revelation, that the wine was affecting him more than he'd anticipated. His stomach, nearly four days empty even with this morning's light breakfast, must be particularly susceptible to its effects.

Cornwallis looked solemn, and even Collins seemed to feel the weight of Hornblower's words. But what inspires gravity in some inspires curiosity in others, for the flag lieutenant couldn't restrain himself from asking, "What did they do to you, sir?" His tone indicated an innocent lack of understanding of what could possibly cause a man such as Hornblower so much distress. The lieutenant could not be much younger than Hornblower, if he was younger at all; perhaps he was contemplating his own mortality and courage. Cornwallis looked disgruntled at this breach of etiquette, but Collins, too, turned curious, if more compassionate eye's to Hornblower.

"Lieutenant Bush did not tell you?" Hornblower raised a brow in genuine surprise.

"No, sir, not exactly, sir. He said you were flogged, but would not say, or perhaps didn't know, anything more." The lieutenant seemed almost eager.

"Roger!" Cornwallis glared at the man, his voice threatening, and the lieutenant temporized his expression into something more appropriate.

"I see. Ha-Hmm." Hornblower struggled to organize his thoughts. For all that Cornwallis protested, he had not actually told Hornblower that he did not have to answer, nor had he stopped the questioning himself. That meant he_ had_ to answer. But as he was the only one who know what happened on that ship, he could easily leave out what he would.

"I see. Well it is a short list. I was flogged, fifty lashes with the cat. Then I was dragged by a rope line behind the ship as it cruised at five knots, to let the salt get properly in my wounds and to give the sharks a chance at some sport. The cold thankfully rendered me insensible before anything chanced to take a bite. I was then tied to the masthead most of the night to see if the weather and discomfort would do more than the pain."

"Fifty lashes!" It was typical that the lieutenant would focus on that particular torture. No doubt he had overseen many a flogging, and could thus appreciate the severity of that punishment. The cat did significantly more damage than a single barbed whip, and a sentence of 60 or more lashes was often a death sentence, due to the shock and increased chance of infection.

"Well no wonder your lieutenant looked so worried yesterday. I'm amazed you're here before us at all." Collins for once looked genuine as he regarded Hornblower.

Cornwallis, however, looked speculative, "How did you get that bruise on your face, Captain?"

Hornblower froze. _He felt his face slammed hard to the deck of that awful cabin, his eyes so close they could see the scuffs on the wood varnish. Still he struggled, but rather than beat his head again, the man on top of him merely pressed his face flush to the planking, holding it there so he could not move it . . ._

Hornblower told himself to relax, to think, but no clever excuse or white lie came to his lips. With those memories tearing through his mind, and the wine flowing through his veins it was frustratingly impossible to dissemble. His hand, resting near his glass on the table, trembled. Finally, when the silence grew noticeable, he forced himself to say only, "I do not wish to speak of it."

The implication was clear—there was more to his story, more done to him, that he was deliberately withholding. Cornwallis's eyes bore into his, and he felt the curious gazes of Collins and the flag lieutenant. If he had been in a more perceptive mood he might have seen that it was not curiosity on Collin's face, but uncertainty, and on Cornwallis's face resided as expression that was almost . . . paternal, though Hornblower would likely be incapable of recognizing it as such.

The admiral leaned back and said, "I understand." There was compassion in those words, and a sympathy in Cornwallis's eyes. For a brief moment it seemed to Hornblower that Cornwallis really _did_ understand, and that frightened him more than any other single part of that meeting.

But the moment passed, and Hornblower allowed himself to breath.

ooooooooo

Bush was waiting for him when he returned to the _Hotspur_, and Hornblower could not disguise his weariness. His conversation aboard the _Hibernia_ had unsettled him, and the churning of his mind was giving him a headache. Bush took one look at his pale face and stooped figure and yelled for Doughty.

"You're going to bed, sir." Bush did not phrase it as a question, and Hornblower smiled slightly at his presumption.

"Yes."

"I'll wake you if anything requires your attention."

"Yes."

Bush absorbed this acquiescence with some uneasiness as Hornblower made his way across the deck. He was not surprised, therefore, when his captain turned back to him when he neared the companionway stairs.

"I must speak with you before I retire, Mr. Bush. Will you join me in a minute?"

"Of course, sir."

Doughty had helped him out of his jacket and was working on his stockings and trousers when Bush knocked on Hornblower's cabin door.

"Come in."

Hornblower sat on the edge of his cot while Doughty worked the thin cotton off of his legs and as soon as that task was completed he dismissed his steward. Hornblower came straight to the point, his fatigue deterring any circumlocutions. "Cornwallis has ordered me on leave for two days, and I want the _Hotspur_ fully refitted and vittled before I return. He has not given me our orders yet, but I suspect we will be returning to the Goulet."

"Aye aye, sir. Do you know when you'll be leaving?"

"Probably this afternoon. I am too tired to leave now. I shall return the evening of the eighth." Hornblower, still sitting on the edge of his bed, rested his forehead on his hands.

"Very well, sir." Bush hesitated, then continued, clearly having heard the anxiety in Hornblower's voice, "If you don't mind me saying, sir, you're long overdue for a break. I think it'll do you good."

"Perhaps." Hornblower grunted. Then, possibly because of the wine still in his system, possibly feeling it an obligation of friendship, he offered an explanation for his disquietude. "You have sisters, do you not, Mr. Bush?"

Bush's eyebrows went up. "Aye, sir. Four of them."

"And do they fawn over you and hover about, and hold on to you like you're their favorite piece of china?"

"I suppose, sir."

"I do not want to be fawned over, or held, or _touched_ by _anyone_ now. Not even my wife. _Especially_ not my wife."

Bush looked uncomfortable at this revelation, Hornblower saw when he lifted his head, though there were other emotions contorting his friend's face that he could not identify. Hornblower himself suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious at his unusual openness. That was much too revealing a confession, and he felt a blush creep up his cheeks in shame.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Bush."

"Sir, I don't think-"

"LEAVE, damn you!"

Bush left, leaving Hornblower to cradle his head once more, alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part VIII** (3100)

BBBBBBBBBB

Bush was melancholic as he watched Hornblower's figure diminish into the distance, the gig slowly rowing its way toward the docks. He had told Hornblower that he thought a break would do him good, but in truth Bush was loath to see the captain leave the ship. His trepidation increased with every sweep of gig's the oars, and Bush privately admitted to himself that it was not solely concern for Hornblower's peace of mind which motivated his misgivings. Every part of this departure bothered him; his only relief was that he had succeeded in convincing the captain to bring Doughty with him, and even that was merely a victory over Hornblower's own self-consciousness, for it was clearly the uncomfortable vision of Maria tending to his shredded back that lead him to accept the suggestion.

He forced himself to look away.

"Mr. Poole, have the master and his mate prepare the water casks for filling. The water lug should be along presently."

"Aye aye, sir."

"As soon as repairs are done and our stores are full I'll let the wives on board. You can tell the men that when next you go below."

"Aye aye, sir."

oooooo

Almost as soon as Hornblower left the ship the rumors started up. Bush would likely never have heard them, but for the unfortunate coincidence that his berth was right next to the wardroom. Even then he had not intended to overhear the conversation. He didn't make it his business to put his nose where it didn't belong, and what the other officers chose to gossip about was of little concern to him. But it was no fault of his that their words flowed through the wall, and when his ears latched on to their speech it was certainly not from any conscious effort. Really, he could no more prevent his ears from listening than he could successfully smother his interest once he heard the object of their speech, for they were discussing the one subject that seemed to weigh on his mind constantly these days. That is, of course, the captain.

"You can't think there's any truth to it." That was Mr. Young, his high voice penetrating easily.

"You heard it the same as I did—and he said he got it straight from the _Hibernia_." Bush recognized Orrock.

"Yes, but 50 lashes? And keel hauled? My God, man—he'd be dead if they did all that!"

"Are you calling the Captain a liar?"

Young made a of noise of disgust. "I'm calling the _waterman_ a liar, or the man who told _him._ You know how these things grow as they go round the fleet."

"Maybe so, but they usual start with a kernel of truth."

Another grunt from Young.

"I'm just saying a bad flogging would certainly explain the way the Captain was pacing the other day. You saw him! He was stiff as a boom! Couldn't even get his hands behind his back!"

"You're right about that I'll grant—but 50 lashes? 30 is a more likely number." Young was clearly not a man to set store in rumors.

"Fine, fine—but what about the rest?"

"Well they didn't actually say he was keel-hauled, did they? They said he was dragged behind the ship. Not that that sounds too comfortable, mind you, but it's not the same."

"I'd like to see _you_ volunteer to dangle behind the ship with the sharks." Orrock's voice was less teasing than challenging.

"Will you two stop arguing? You're going to wake the lieutenant." Bush was surprised to hear Cargill's voice join the mix—it had seemed at first that Orrock and Young were alone.

"He's not on deck?"

"Didn't you hear the watch bells? Third watch ended 20 minutes ago."

"I bet the Lieutenant knows the truth of it," asserted Orrock, ignoring Cargill's warning.

"You can be the one to ask him," Cargill replied dryly.

"Maybe I will. He _was_ with the captain when the doctor was looking him over, you know."

"You're daft."

But Orrock didn't think so, "I bet it's a great story. That boatman, he said that when those frogs asked him to spill his beak, the captain, he spat in their faces and said, cool as you please 'Go to hell'. And that was after they'd been at 'im. If just half of what he said was true, the captain will deserve a full spread in the Gazette. Why wouldn't the Lieutenant want to tell us?"

"You're even more daft than I thought if you think Lieutenant Bush cares more about story telling than the captain's privacy. They're friends, you know—the captain and him."

"Hardly seems like it," Young snorted.

"Even so," Cargill insisted.

"The captain's not exactly a man to have 'friends' " Orrock seconded.

"How do you think he got the black eye?" Young switched topics.

"Someone punched him good in the face, that's how," Orrock thought this was obvious.

"The waterman didn't make it sound like that."

"So now you believe that popinjay?" Cargill drawled.

"Well there were no numbers this time! He just said it was '_too 'orrible to speak of_'. What does that _mean?_"

Bush stirred at this. It was impossible in his mind that the waterman could know what had happened to Hornblower. He didn't think anything, even a direct order, could induce the captain to speak of it.

Orrock laughed, "Means he doesn't know, so he's making something up."

"Does it?"

There was a silent pause, and it was clear from the next statement that Orrock and Young were looking to Cargill for confirmation.

"Don't look at me," the sailor's mate said harshly. "I know no more than anyone else."

"But you brought him back!" Young insisted.

"So I did. And all I can say is he looked right awful." Cargill's voice dropped to a low pitch Bush almost couldn't decipher, "I thought he was dead when the Lieutenant handed him down to the marines. He just-" Cargill took a long deep breath. "it was horrible."

"You think he'll be alright?" Young's voice was softer now, his tone shifting to match Cargill's.

"'Course he will. He's the captain!" Orrock blustered with forced confidence.

"He looked pretty bad, this morning, you know. Pretty bad."

Orrock finally dropped his joviality. "Yeah."

"So you won't be asking Lieutenant Bush any dumb questions?" Cargill phrased it more as an order than a question.

"I'm not daft, despite what you all think. I just want to know—I mean what could make a man like Hornblower . . . I just want to know. But I'll keep my trap shut."

The conversation died out. Bush found himself surprised at this ship gossip, but he supposed he should not be. He usually enjoyed such speculation himself, and was ashamed to admit that even with such a topic as this—perhaps especially with this topic-he wished he had overheard that waterman first hand. It was entirely likely that one of the servants or maybe that damn flag lieutenant aboard the _Hibernia_ had been present for Hornblower's report and had spread that report amongst the crew afterwards. There _was_ some truth to those rumors—he knew better than any. Fifty lashes was entirely too likely a number, and being hauled behind the ship would certainly explain Hornblower's roughened skin and a good many of his bruises. And that last quote-"go to hell" . . . it held just enough pride and righteous hopelessness to have come from the captain's lips.

Bush recalled once questioning Hornblower's courage, when they were lieutenants together on the _Renown_. He had been proven wrong in his doubts during that first battle, as he had been in every battle since. Bush tried to imagine himself being whipped to the muscle. He tried to imagine himself thrown overboard and dragged with the sharks, salt grating into his bleeding back. He tried to imagine being forced onto the wood planking and ridden. He tried to picture himself bound coatless on deck so long that his face was numb and he could no longer stand. He tried to imagine all of these things and found he could not. And Bush knew then that Hornblower was the bravest man of his acquaintance.

Bush had served under many captains in his life-Some cruel, some indecisive; most steady but unimaginative. He was several years Hornblower's senior and had started his naval career at 13 to Hornblower's 17, which meant that he had walked the deck of many a ship as well—from 12 gun sloops to more than one ship of the line. Yet he had been gratified when Hornblower had asked him to serve as his lieutenant. It wasn't until that moment, however, that Bush realized it went beyond that initial respect. Not only would he serve Hornblower anywhere, but it was positively painful to think of serving any other.

oooooo

The rumors moved from the officers to the crew the next day, and Bush was in two minds about whether to stop it.

"He got that black eye from cursing their captain—a mean old devil with long hair and a golden tooth. 'Tell us where the fleet is!' 'e orders 'ornblower, but Horny, he just looks 'em straight in the eye an' says 'go to hell'. An' then 'e spits right in 'is face, calm as you please."

"Tha's not what 'appened, Hewy. No ways the captain's shootin' off 'is mouth. He hardly ever says a word even when 'es happy—he's not gonna curse at someone holdin' him in chains."

"He'd say whatever 'e pleased, right enough. The captain's a cold man under pressure—idn't 'e, Blacky?"

"Oh aye. I was with him when 'e lit up the magazine on those Frenchies and dheir semaphore. Jumped right in de magazine himself, then wouldn't let no odher light the fuse. Nerves of steel that one."

"See Doyle? I was on tha' same mission. The captain don't take shite from no one. And I bet right enough 'e didn't take shite from that frog captain either."

Bush could hardly interrupt them without drawing attention to himself, and being the only one on board, other than Wallis, with some idea of what happened, he had no desire to turn the ship's curiosity onto his person. So he let the men talk, and prayed they'd have the sensibility to keep their mouths shut when the captain returned. The wives would come on board during the afternoon watch—perhaps they would be distraction enough.

oooooo

It turned out to be Bush who was distracted that afternoon, rather than the men. As he ordered the boats released to retrieve the wives a flag ran up the halyard of the _Hibernia. _It read 'captain come aboard' and the _Hotspur_'s signal flag ran up behind it. Bush was quite confused when Foreman first relayed this message, but it came to him in the next instant. There was no flag for 'lieutenant' or 'officer in charge', unless they were spelled out letter by letter. Perhaps the signal officer aboard the _Hibernia_ had been economizing their message, or perhaps the admiral had intended the message to be so. In either case Bush was clearly expected to come aboard. He ordered the gig lowered and left the ship in Prowse's capable hands.

Cornwallis was alone at his great table when Rogers lead Bush into the rear cabin, and the admiral waved off the flag lieutenant's brusque introduction.

"Yes, yes-that will be all!" Roger's slank away in obvious disappointment, but Bush found himself relaxing marginally at the departure. Cornwallis waved at the chair directly across from him, "Please, please, take a seat, Mr. Bush."

Bush stopped himself only just in time from replying 'aye aye, sir', and he slipped into the indicated chair.

"Would you care for some wine? Perhaps some claret, lieutenant?"

Bush responded in the negative, and Cornwallis, having dispensed now of formalities, pinned Bush with his sharp eyes. Even if it would not be rude to do so Bush would not have been able to turn away from that penetrating gaze. Cornwallis was not young-his face was a wreath of wrinkles, and his hair was fully white—but when Bush looked into those eyes he saw a man still full of vitality, and a strength of will that he had only ever before seen in Hornblower. It was mesmerizing, even as it was intimidating.

At length Cornwallis spoke. "Our conversation the other day was rather short, Mr. Bush, and it comes to my mind that there are things that must still be said."

Bush immediately moved to apologize, "I'm sorry, sir—I did not intend to-"

Cornwallis smiled slightly in apparent amusement. "I was referring to _myself_, Mr. Bush."

Bush could say nothing to that—indeed he was rather confused by the admission. What could the admiral possibly have neglected to tell him?

"I have reviewed your written report in addition to the verbal summary you gave us yesterday. Not many captains would have done what you did, sir, chasing after Hornblower. You opened the captain's orders, quite against regulation; you wasted shot firing at that sloop in the fog; you risked your ship in the Goulet—and I'm not just talking about the shoals—and then, _then_ you invited further trouble in bypassing Ushant to come straight to port! Not many captains indeed would have done the same." Cornwallis's tone was unreadable, but Bush could only conclude that this was a censure. He had been prepared for this consequence the moment he'd made that first fateful decision to invade Hornblower's desk, and he had known with each subsequent decision during that horrid day and a half, that he could be ending his career.

But Hornblower was back. And he was alive.

So even as Bush stiffened himself for the coming blow, he knew that he'd done right, and so he was at peace with himself. "If not many captain's would have done what I did, then perhaps it is a good thing I am not a captain. Sir." His voice came out gruffer than he had intended, the 'sir' a distinct afterthought.

Cornwallis's eyes narrowed. "I was thinking rather the opposite, Mr. Bush."

Bush's eyebrows rose sharply in confusion. What the devil did the admiral mean by that? Bush's mouth opened and closed, and he was on the cusp of questioning this cryptic statement directly, propriety having already been cast aside, but at this pronouncement Cornwallis seemed to wash himself of the topic. The admiral relaxed in his chair, and there was nothing but concerned curiosity in his gaze. Bush snapped his jaw shut. It seemed now that he had been on trial, and he had passed.

"How is Hornblower doing?"

The question seemed so out of place with the previous conversation that Bush felt himself respond automatically, unable to imbue his words with any careful though.

"Not well, sir."

Bush flushed immediately after the words left his mouth, for that was an incautious statement indeed, but though the line between Cornwallis's brows deepened, he did not look particularly surprised.

"His injuries?"

Now that he had committed the one indiscretion, surely the damage was already done? Bush squared his shoulders and met the admiral's eye. "He is in great pain. He hides it well, but his back is—well-it will be slow to heal. And he's terribly thin, sir. Terribly thin. And it's not just the—the—he can't—he's-" Bush grunted. He could not say more. "He's not well, sir."

Cornwallis's face remained immobile during this description, but Bush sensed now that this was not out of indifference. The admiral—like Hornblower—merely tightened his features to conceal his emotions.

"Is there anything Captain Hornblower has need of that I could supply, Mr. Bush?"

"Sir?"

For the first time that meeting Cornwallis looked uncomfortable. "We took an excellent port from a merchant vessel running Gibralter, among other things. Perhaps the captain would enjoy a gift for his stores?"

Bush reddened again. That was the closest Cornwallis would come to outright speaking of Hornblower's poverty, but he was clearly as aware of it as Bush. The wardroom, to a man, had whole-heartedly approved of sharing their private stores with Hornblower, particularly in those last two weeks of their patrol, but it had distressed Bush that the captain should have to ask any man for anything. What the admiral offered was a kind gesture indeed, but one that could easily be misconstrued. Bush struggled for an appropriate response.

"I believe that Captain Hornblower would appreciate anything you have to offer, sir." He cleared his throat. "In particular . . . if you captured some coffee, butter, eggs, and fresh meats on that prize as well as that port, I think his steward and I could ensure that he eats properly."

A smile split Cornwallis's crinkled face, "I see that we understand each other. Is there anything else?"

Bush sifted through his memories for any other references Hornblower had made in his past. There was that time at Kingston, when Hornblower had visited him with fresh fruit—a pineapple, paw-paws, bananas . . . but there were none of those things to be found on the coast of England. Hornblower was an accomplished reader, a strategist, a mathematician . . . Perhaps a book?

Then the obvious occurred to Bush, and he grimaced, for it would be an impossible thing to explain away as a prize . . .

"I see that you have something in mind?" Cornwallis prodded.

"Ah-yes, sir." Bush paused a moment longer in uncertainty, but it would make little difference if he voiced the deficit to Cornwallis. "It's the captain's uniform, sir."

Cornwallis frowned.

"His clothes were already quite worn before he was taken, and after he returned . . . well, they don't have much life left. They took his sword entirely, and his hat was-well, it's ruined, sir. He likely hasn't noticed its absence with all the other things on his mind, but—he needs a proper hat, sir."

"Hmm." Cornwallis grunted. His eyes shifted away from Bush to focus on the ceiling of the great cabin. His mouth moved up and down with his chin as he thought, and then it returned to the smile of earlier.

"There's not much I can do about the uniform—that's not an admiral's business, you understand—but leave the hat and the sword to me."

"What ar—" Bush began to phrase a question, but the look in Cornwallis's blue eyes was enough for him to abort the attempt.

"Aye aye, sir."

"Is there anything else, Mr. Bush?"

Cornwallis clearly felt the conversation should be at its conclusion. "No, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Hmm. Good. Very good. Then you are dismissed."

Bush stood swiftly. "Thank you, sir. I—thank you, sir" He wanted to say more, but it would not be appropriate, so he turned and walked to the cabin door. As he reached for the latch, Cornwallis called from behind him.

"Mr. Bush?"

Bush turned.

"Look after him."

"I will, sir."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX** (5500 words)

When Hornblower returned the following day, he looked tired and drawn—just as he had when he'd left the ship.

"How was your leave, sir?"

Hornblower was better at disguising his emotions now than he had been as a midshipman, but he had not yet perfected the art. Bush speculated that even Hornblower's small improvement was more from that winter scrapping a living playing whist than from his time captaining the _Hotspur._ Bush, in any case, easily recognized the entire spread of emotions that flashed across Hornblower's face at this innocent question. The tableau began and ended with a blend of agitation, horror, and self disgust. Sandwiched in between was a brief glimpse of joy and pride. Bush could well imagine the source of these emotions, between Mrs. Mason, Little Horatio, and Maria, and so he knew better than to comment when Hornblower finally responded in a flat voice, "Well enough."

He tipped his hat to the captain and found an excuse to shout at one of the men dawdling amidships, thus giving Hornblower time to retreat unharassed. This the captain did with as much haste as he could muster, given his injuries, and his dignity. Doughty was slower coming up the side. It was on him to direct the men in raising the captain's sea chest, and he was clearly as aware of the captain's need for privacy as Bush was. They shared a glance of mutual understanding, and Bush did his best to keep the hands so busy in the following hours that even had they _wanted_ to gossip they could not have.

It was not entirely useless evolutions that he put them through either; the _Hibernia _had raised the Blue Peter, which meant the fleet was to depart on the morrow. It was a strange tradition, this raising of that blue and white pendant, and while it was sanctioned by navy protocol, Cornwallis was the only admiral to ever use it. Indeed, the Blue Peter might as well be the white pendent for the association both had with the white haired devil of the British navy. Bush was suspicious of this new flag. If the fleet was to depart, it was probable that the _Hotspur_ would sail with it, and that made it unlikely that they were returning to the Goulet.

oooooo

Bush's suspicions were confirmed the next morning. Hornblower went early to the _Hibernia_ to receive his orders, and when he returned he did not set a course, he did not loose the sails, he did not even weigh anchor. He told Bush to watch the flag signals aboard the admiral's ship and call him when they indicated any change. Hornblower seemed agitated, almost out of sorts and for a moment Bush worried what their orders could possibly be. Just before reaching the companion stairs, the captain turned to call back to Bush, and then Bush realized the true cause of Hornblower's discomfort.

"Mr. Bush, you will see to the unloading of my gig."

"Unloading, sir?"

"Yes," Hornblower replied sharply, "The admiral has seen fit to give me his share of the last prize."

"That's good news, sir! Very good news indeed!" Hornblower looked much less pleased by this gift than Bush was on his behalf, but the captain was often ornery about such things. Bush had no doubt that come morning he'd enjoy his new fresh cup of coffee regardless of its source. Then Bush noticed something else—something different about Hornblower . . .

"Sir! Is that a new sword, sir?"

Hornblower looked, if possible, even more flustered. "Ha-h'mm. Yes. Yes it is, Mr. Bush. A gift from the patriotic fund, in reward for the _Hotspur_'s destruction of the French invasion fleet. God knows how they had it made so swiftly." He spoke flippantly, as if the present irritated him, but Bush saw his hand unconsciously curl protectively around the sword's hilt.

Bush was prompted by this tell to comment on the final change. "Your hat as well, sir?"

"Hmm. Indeed. It appears they heard of its loss at my capture, and thought it a fitting accompaniment to the sword." Again Hornblower's irritation was belied by a motion, as Hornblower's other hand moved upward as if to reposition the object. The bircorn looked to be of the finest quality felted wool, and there was a golden line of ribbon running its length.

"It's a very fine hat, sir, if you don't mind my saying. It suits you."

Hornblower's mouth tightened, a sure sign he was fighting to suppress his true feelings on the matter. He settled for a grumbled, "Thank you, Mr. Bush." Then he truly did give in to his irritation. "I'll thank you further to call me when the signal flags change!" With that he spun and went below.

Bush smiled to himself when the captain was no longer in view, for even though Hornblower's pride demanded he feel embarrassment for these gifts, he clearly appreciated them nonetheless. He walked over to the side to order the proper unloading of the gig, but he could already see it was underway thanks to Doughty's close attention. The steward must be having kittens! From where he stood at the rail Bush could see tin after tin of coffee beans, as well as cartons he guessed must contain butter and cheese. There were six chickens and a rooster, and—Lord knows how they got it on the boat—but there was a lamb! A _true_ lamb, too, not an old mutton. He rather wondered that Hornblower had believed all this could come from a prize, but then again, perhaps he did not.

Bush wanted someone to share his pleasure with, and his eyes caught Doughty's without any effort. They grinned in unison. Then, as Bush turned to better watch the men, something blue caught his eye. It was not the blue of the sea, but the dark navy blue of his uniform, and it was tucked under the sternsheets of the gig, only just revealed with the unloading. A bolt of fabric. The white haired devil, indeed! Cornwallis had thought of everything it seemed; he could not give Hornblower a new uniform, but he could certainly ensure that Doughty had all the material necessary for patching his old ones.

An hour passed before the signal ran up the _Hibernia'_s halyard ordering the squadron to make sail, and Bush was full of energy when it finally did. He sent Young below to fetch the captain and sent the hands up the ratlines and on to the jackropes so they could unfurl sail as soon as the command was given. The wind had veered slightly and was now coming from the north, abeam of the _Hotspur_'s port side. It would be on their quarter fine when they joined the line of ships leaving the port bay, but once in the channel it would again be abeam, on their starboard side. Bush almost grinned in anticipation of the bracing this would require, for he loved nothing better than exercising the hands. Hornbower came on deck in time to catch something of Bush's expression, and while he made no comment, there was a light in his eyes that told Bush he shared his excitement. It was a light Bush had feared for a time that he might never see again, and his joy was doubled at catching it now, so soon after Hornblower's return.

Of course, there was no hint of this secret pleasure they shared when the captain shouted to the men, "Set tops'l's!"

And while the topmen were unfurling sail, Hornblower turned to the others on the main deck, "Man the braces! I want the yards swung up!"

That would set the sails close hauled even as the canvas was spread. As soon as they turned they'd have to square the yards, but with only the tops'l's out, there would be little stress on the braces.

"Where are we headed, sir?" He could not restrain the question in his excitement, and it was only when he took in the stern expression on Hornblower's face that he remembered it was not the captain's want to share such things. Bush turned away to pretend, as he assumed Hornblower would, that the question had never been asked.

Yet as his eye came to rest on the lengthening sail, a voice answered from behind him, "Ushant. We join the fleet at Ushant."

Bush dared not turn around, but he smiled softly at the admission, cherishing the gift just imparted. Perhaps Hornblower would be alright after all.

oooooo

Upon leaving the enclosed bay at Plymouth, it seemed to Bush that the ship had been restored to its former peace, for it was at sea again under the stern eye of its true captain. The sail to Ushant in the company of the squadron was an easy one, even when they encountered poor weather. The gusts that poured icy rain and graupel on the _Hotspur's_ deck and sent her thrashing from side to side in choppy swells were from a northwest wind, which meant that even while they were battered they made good time. And when they passed that outlaying island, they left Cornwallis and the rest of the channel fleet behind, so that the _Hotspur_ was free and clear on the open sea. Hornblower set them tacking south by southeast, and though Bush did not know their precise orders, he knew they were not destined for the Goulet. He speculated that Cornwallis, and by association Hornblower, must expect French movement, for Hornblower had put the topmen on half shift, which meant he wanted them particularly keen-eyed.

By the sixth day of their journey from Plymouth, some of the lines had left Hornblower's face, and though there were still deeps bags under his eyes and his face was mottled purple-yellow, he walked the deck each morning less stiffly than he had that first day. Bush had almost convinced himself that everything would truly be well with his friend when chance allowed him to overhear another conversation in the wardroom.

It was of course Young's high voice that he heard first, "He came up half way through my watch—almost gave me a fright, I can tell you! He didn't say a thing, just paced back and forth like he does."

"He was still there when I took over at the morning watch—stayed on deck till third bells." Orrock added.

"But that doesn't make sense! He was up on deck with _me_ most of the _first _watch." That had to be Poole.

"Well maybe he takes a nap in the afternoon. Hey Cargill! Was the captain on deck during your watch?"

There was the squeal of a chair being moved and a fourth voice joined the assemblage. "Aye. He was on deck all day."

"Then when does he sleep?" Young demanded.

"I don't think he does."

"But-everyone's got to sleep."

"Aye."

"But . . . well . . . that cannot be a healthy, surely!"

"Aye. The captain doesn't look too well."

"Maybe we should-"

"Lieutenant!"

Bush was unaware that he'd gotten to his feet, or that he'd left his cabin. He was quite as surprised as the young gentlemen when he suddenly stepped into the wardroom. But this was not idle gossip; this was important. Bush shut the door behind him, which was an indication of how serious he was, for the wardroom door was always kept open.

He ran his eyes over each of the assembled officers. They could tell from his demeanor that they'd been overheard, and they all wore chagrined expressions at their indiscretion. Best to let that discomfort linger a moment.

"How long has this been going on?"

Orrock, Young, Poole, and Cargill all exchanged glances. Cargill, as the senior present, was the one to reply. "How long has what been going on, sir?"

Bush narrowed his eyes. "How long has the captain been coming on deck during your watches?"

Cargill's eyes softened as he realized the true source of Bush's irritation. He looked to the young gentlemen to answer the lieutenant's question, however, for he, like Bush, had a day shift.

"He's been on deck every night for the past four days, sir. Almost since we left port," Poole summarized.

"And none of you saw fit to mention this?"

"We didn't think it was our place, sir," said Young. "He's the _captain_."

Bush turned away in frustration, but he was mostly angry at himself. Angry that he hadn't noticed this sleeplessness on his own, and angry that he had revealed his displeasure with that tactless question. Of course the young officers would not report on the captain's activities; the captain was the absolute ruler aboard his ship, and it was _no one's_ place to question his comings and goings.

Orrock called his attention back to the assembled officers, "Sir? Is he well, sir?"

His head whipped back and he glared at Orrock, who, to his merit, wore an earnest expression. If it was not their place to comment on the captain's night walks, it was even less their place to comment on his health.

Cargill saved them all from a scathing reproach with a more solicitous question, "Is there anything we can do to help, sir?"

"No." Bush said quickly. The last thing he needed was the ship's young gentlemen acting peculiar around the captain. Hornblower might seem unobservant in his walks, but Bush knew from experience that he was far from it. He settled his face into a half scowl—an expression that Orrock and Poole and Young at least would recognize well. "I'll thank you gentlemen to discuss this matter no further." He looked them over keenly, so that each would see the threat in his words; then he turned on his heel, opened the door, and left the wardroom.

It took Bush a frustratingly long span of time to track down and isolate the one man who could tell him more, but Bush was never one to approach a topic indirectly. When he finally managed to corner Doughty in the galley, he made no attempt to at dissembling.

"Doughty, has the captain been sleeping?"

Doughty looked mildly affronted and grateful at the same time, as if he'd been hoping someone would ask him this question and dreading it at the same time. He looked straight at Bush and said, as if it was of no concern, "It's not my place to say whether the captain prefers the company of a watched deck to an empty cabin, sir."

Doughty left before Bush could question him further, and it took Bush the remainder of the day to puzzle out the meaning of his words. _It's not my place to say whether the captain prefers . . . _Clearly the captain _did_ prefer the deck to his cabin . . . which meant Doughty was giving him not just confirmation of the captain's sleeplessness, but the reason behind it. _The captain prefers the company of a watched deck_. The captain couldn't sleep alone in his cabin. The realization, when it finally came to Bush, saddened him, and he was immediately filled with a desire to set it to rights.

It would require careful maneuvering. The captain was not likely to look on a direct intervention kindly, which left Bush with the difficulty of contriving to get the captain to think that whatever Bush devised was in fact his own idea. And Hornblower was a far cleverer man than Bush, an attribute he had often admired. It would require careful maneuvering indeed.

oooooo

Once he was decided on his course, Bush had only to await the opportunity, and prepare. Unsurprisingly it arrived that night, as it had every night for the past week. Doughty fetched him during the middle watch, and he made haste to the captain's door.

"Come in." Bush had half expected the captain to pretend to be asleep, seeing as it was just past two in the morning, but when he entered he saw that the captain was fully dressed. There was no point in pretending sleep only to appear on deck minutes later.

Bush stumbled into the cabin, and when he spoke, the slur to his speech was not entirely feigned. He had stayed up all night worrying about this encounter, and had been fortifying his courage since midnight with his carefully hoarded rum ration. The wine bottle in his hand he had saved for Hornblower.

"Sir! Sir! Will you drink a toast with me, sir?"

"A toast? A toast to what, man?"

"T-to . . . to glorious battles . . and . . courage at sea!"

"Are you drunk, Bush?" Hornblower sounded disbelieving—clearly it had been too long since they'd shared a glass.

"It's all in the Gazette, sir—we read it tonight in the wardroom. 'Showing great courage at sea, the Hotspur caught two frigates and several loaded brigs unawares in the shoaled waters of the Goulet.'" Bush hiccupped. "I insist you drink a toast with me, sir!"

"You _are_ drunk!"

"Is it against the articles for a man to enjoy himself?" Brooking no argument, Bush set the two glasses clutched in his left hand on the table and tipped the wine bottle in his right hand to each glass's rim. He filled them both to the top. Not trusting his hands with lifting a full glass, he pushed Hornblower's across the table.

Hornblower accepted it, amusement evident in his voice when he said, "Very well, Mr. Bush. Let's hear your toast."

"It's a rather long toast, sir. You may want to sit down."

Hornblower rolled his eyes. "Continue, Mr. Bush."

"Raise you glass! Raise your glass! To the _Hotspur_, our bonny lass!

Her braces are sure, Her cannons are bright,

She's been through many a glorious fight!"

Bush hiccupped again.

"And when she prowls the dark of night

You'd best show nary a flag or light,

For if of you she catches sight,

She'll tack right fast to take a bite,

And though you run with all your might,

You'll find yourself in real deep shite!"

Bush was rather proud of this speech. He'd spent the better part of an hour coming up with the rhymes, though he'd been in to the rum by then, so perhaps that wasn't saying much.

"I do believe that is the most ridiculous toast I've ever heard, Mr. Bush." There was laughter behind Hornblower's words, and Bush congratulated himself on time well spent.

"Well there's another verse, sir, if you'll let me-"

Hornblower laughed outright then, and Bush feigned effrontery.

"Well then, sir, I will read you this Gazette, instead. You really must listen to it. It's the first report I've contributed to myself, ya see, sir. Hear this, "_Hotspur_, under the command of Captain Horatio Hornblower, engaged both frigates in heavy fog, allowing them to move through the French lines initially undetected. When shots were finally exchanged, the first frigate was drawn away to protect a convoy of packed brigs, and the second frigate was forced onto the shoals and beached. The _Hotspur_ suffered a fracture to her foremast, but was otherwise only mildly damaged. She lost three men in the engagement . . ." Bush droned on for some time until he saw the captain blinking.

"Bush! You're putting me to sleep!"

"You're welcome to lay down, sir. But you really must hear the rest. I insist. Just lay on your cot, sir."

Hornblower again rolled his eyes, but he hefted himself to his feet and ambled to his cot.

"You'll be more comfortable if you take off your coat, sir."

"Carry on, Mr. Bush."

And Bush did. He skipped to another section of the Gazette—it didn't matter what he read now—and continued in a low voice until he heard a quiet snore from Hornblower's corner. Then Bush grinned. His plan had succeeded, and he had only to carry out the second part, which was really quite straight forward. All it required was for him to put down the Gazette, lay his head on his arms . . . and fall asleep. Not difficult at all, really.

Hornblower's snores were joined by Bush's in a matter of minutes.

oooooo

Hornblower and Bush were roused simultaneously by Doughty in the morning, and Bush put on an appropriately sheepish expression for being found to have apparently passed out on his captain's table. Doughty gave him a knowing, grateful look when the captain was in the head, and Bush forced himself to maintain his air of innocence. He waited for Hornblower to come out before departing so as to offer rightly penitent apologies, then rushed away to change his uniform before the watch.

A full day passed before Bush got the reaction from his captain that he had hoped for.

"Mr. Bush. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?"

Bush had to force the smile that crawled to his lips back down. He had begun to worry that Hornblower would brush off the Gazette incident entirely—dismissing Bush's drunkenness as a peculiarity only. That the captain had been found on deck again the night following his reading had seemed confirmation. He was happy to be proven wrong.

"I would be honored, sir."

"Ha-h'mm. Very well. I'll have Doughty serve us at seven in my cabin."

The appointment was hardly necessary. Bush and Hornblower stayed on deck until ten 'til seven and then went to Hornblower's cabin together. Doughty was waiting for them when they entered, two trays of food and a bottle of wine laid out on the table. Bush hadn't noticed Doughty come on deck that afternoon, but he must have, to know to serve two that night.

"Thank you, Doughty," Hornblower said upon taking his seat. "We'll crack the bottle now, if you please." He gestured to the wine.

"A-yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Dinner was boiled chicken and leek stew, and it was one of the best ship-board meals Bush had ever partaken of, though he wasn't normally one for the fancy preparations Doughty seemed to favor. He wondered if the captain always preferred stews and soups, or that was a recent development. Bush certainly would not mind stew every day if it tasted like this one.

The dinner was a quiet one. Hornblower didn't talk much during the meal, and Bush followed his lead. As if to make up for the silence, the captain drank frequently and deeply, quite out of character, and Bush followed him in that as well. By the end of their meal the first bottle of wine was empty, and Doughty, when he came in to take away their dishes, noted the depletion and returned with another bottle.

With the food gone there was little to fill the silence except the wine, and Bush was finally compelled to start a real conversation, in spite of Hornblower's reticence.

"It's been a clear sea for a week now. Do you think the French are waiting for the storm season to pass?"

Hornblower's expression darkened, and Bush knew even before his captain responded that that line of questioning would get him nowhere. "Perhaps, Mr. Bush."

Bush switched tacks. "I was thinking, sir, that we might start regular gun drills, if might suggest it. We could use more practice in running out the guns under pressure, and with switching out of gun crews with the deck crew."

Bush had more success with this line—Hornblower seized upon the logistical problem of rearranging the sub-crews and of scheduling drills. And of course the conversation naturally progressed into a debate on tactics and seamanship under fire, as they both envisioned sailing the _Hotspur_ through various types of French fleets. The topic lasted them better than an hour, and they were both so intent on the various difficulties and points of contention that the time passed quite without their notice.

Bush was on his fourth glass of the night, and Hornblower on his fifth when the tone of the night shifted. It caught Bush by surprise, coming so late in the evening, and he could not tailor his reaction.

There had been a comfortable break in the conversation as they both nursed their glasses and contemplated the other's speech. Then Hornblower looked up at Bush with an assessing frown and said, seemingly out of the ether, "You came because I can't sleep."

"Sir?"

"The other night-the Gazette, the drinks."

"Sir-"

"How did you—ha-h'm . . . am I that transparent?"

Bush said nothing, crafting his expression, rather ineffectually he was sure, into one of studied confusion.

"You're a lousy liar Bush."

Bush let his mask drop. Between the alcohol and his innate honesty, he was incapable of prevaricating. "Sir—You're-you're on deck nearly every watch, sir. We're worried about you, sir."

"We? The other officers . . . they . . ." Hornblower looked beseechingly at Bush, clearly appalled.

"You're on deck nearly every watch, sir."

"Dammit, Bush! So what if I am!" Hornblower slammed his hand on the table, his enraged eyes boring into Bush.

Bush met his gaze directly, "Everyone needs sleep, sir. And you so recently ill—sir, it's not healthy."

"So you're a doctor now, are you, Mr. Bush?"

"I'm your first lieutenant, sir, and I'm your friend."

Hornblower looked searchingly at Bush's face, and Bush tried to contain his mounting anxiety. Hornblower was a fickle character—as prone to issuing a scathing dismissal as a laugh, and Bush felt quite precarious in his situation, perched as he was at the captain's table. But Hornblower had drunk enough wine to yield the one response Bush had not dared to hope for: honesty, frightening in its intensity.

Hornblower stood, using the table to push himself up fully. He was forced to duck as he shuffled to the aft window, for he had always been too tall for the cross beams below decks, but once he reached the glass, he lifted an arm to the wood lining of the window and leaned against it, so his head rested against the crook of his elbow. His posture was defeated and tired, to Bush's eyes, and it was so profound a change from Hornblower's cold strength on deck that Bush was forced to acknowledge that the captain had become better at hiding his emotions than Bush had given him credit for.

Hornblower spoke quietly from that dark corner, "I cannot sleep, Bush. I cannot sleep, and when I do, it is worse than if I hadn't. A man should not be afraid of his dreams. He should not be afraid of the dark, dammit."

Bush rose from his seat at these words, and took a step towards Hornblower, "Everyone has nightmares, sir. There's no shame in it." Bush contemplated telling Hornblower about some of the things he heard the midshipmen cry about during the night, but he feared that might be more insult than comfort. So he simply repeated, "There's no shame in it at all, sir."

"But there _is_ shame, Bush! There is shame in not being able to control one's body, and even worse shame in not being able to control one's mind! I cannot stand it! My mind betrays me during the night, and my body betrays me during the day!"

"You were grievously injured, sir! Surely you can't expect your back to heal overnight!"

"I'm not talking about my back, Bush!" Hornblower looked over his shoulder to Bush, his eyes wild, "It's—I—dammit, man! You saw what happened that first night!"

Bush felt his eyes go wide. When Hornblower said he was betrayed by his body, Bush assumed the captain was referring to his general weakness—the pain that was no doubt constantly with him, the soreness whenever he paced the deck, his fatigue . . . Bush had firmly put out of mind that violent flinch he'd witnessed the night Hornblower had first woken. And with this realization Bush remembered other scenes. Hornblower stepping quickly back when Orrock came a little too close when making a report; Hornblower standing taught as a mainstay as Doughty pulled off his jacket; Hornblower emphatically dismissing any help from the hands as he painfully climbed down to the gig. And Bush remembered the words spoken by Hornblower the day after his fever had broken. _I do not want to be fawned over, or held, or touched by anyone now._

Bush clenched his hands as he gazed on Hornblower's profile, half lit by lantern light, half in shadow. Seeing his captain, his friend so troubled made Bush sad and inexplicably furious. The emotions seemed all the more intense for his inexperience with them, for Bush had never considered himself an emotional man. It was not that he lacked feelings—it was not even that he disguised and repressed his emotions, as Hornblower did. It was more that Bush was such a practical, straight-forward man that he had never had much cause for strong sentiments, beyond anger in battle, pride in a well-run ship, and, in the last few years, a growing admiration for a certain dark eyed, melancholy young officer.

So it was that the onset of these unexpected and intense emotions seemed to strip Bush as fully of his ability to control his body as Hornblower was. He was quite unable to restrain his feet from stepping toward the window, and he had no control over the hand that rose up to grip Hornblower's arm. Bush was as surprised as Hornblower when that same hand twisted back on Hornblower's shoulder, forcing the captain to face his lieutenant. And he could never explain what force impelled him to then wrap both of his muscled arms around Hornblower's thin frame.

Hornblower immediately tensed, but Bush did not release him. Bush didn't know if Hornblower's discomfort was because of the pain in his back or because of the very instinct he had just discovered-in that moment he didn't care. "You're going to be alright, sir," he said fiercely. "You're going to be alright." Hornblower gradually relaxed—it seemed to Bush that he could feel each and every muscle of his captain's back slowly untense beneath his fingers. Soon Hornblower was almost sagging against Bush, and Bush tightened his grip in response. Then Hornblower's arms, which had fallen to his side over Bush's arms at the sudden hug, rose up to clutch at Bush's back. Bush felt the bony frame beneath his arms start to shake, and though he heard nothing but unevenly staggered harsh breaths in his ear, he knew Hornblower was crying. Bush, his chin resting on Hornblower's left shoulder, closed his eyes.

They remained by the window in that silent embrace for an indeterminate amount of time. Time was of no concern for Bush, and Hornblower, between the wine and his mental turmoil, was beyond the world. At length Hornblower's breathing settled and slowed, and Bush could tell, by the weight of Hornblower's body resting against him, that the captain was asleep, or nearly so. Bush would have liked to stand there forever, unmoved, but he thought that sleeping while standing could not possibly be comfortable for Hornblower, and too, there was always the chance that _he_ would fall asleep as well. Bush shifted his right arm out from under Hornblower's and turned his body, so he could act as a support as he dragged his friend across the cabin. At the initial shifting Hornblower roused, and upon becoming aware of his surroundings he stepped immediately out of Bush's grasp.

Bush, feeling the sudden separation keenly, looked to Hornblower in question and saw shamed embarrassment suffuse his melancholy face. He sensed the captain was about to send him away in his usual contrary reaction, and he quickly opened his mouth to cut off any such dismissal. "I'll call on Doughty to set me up a floor cot, sir, if you don't mind. Why don't you get settled?" He moved to the door without giving his superior time to respond, and so missed the war of emotions across Hornblower's countenance. As he reached the door he heard the shuffle of a waistcoat being removed.

Doughty set up a cot in the corner without a word spoken, and Bush stripped off his coat and breeches even as Hornblower lay down on his bed. Hornblower made no comment on Bush's arrangement, and there was silence between them until Bush fell asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part X** (4300 words)

"What do you mean leaving this cordage strewn about across the quarterdeck!" Hornblower's voice was piercing in the calm air of the morning, and Bush would be surprised if the entire ship had not heard it.

"But s-sir—it's make an' mend, sir," that was Walters. He was a young deck hand, and obviously inexperienced in the vagaries of irrational captains. Perhaps that said something about Hornblower as a commander, since the lad had been part of the crew for two years now. But even if the captain was usually a fair man, Walters should know better than to protest with him in this mood. "I jus' thought—"

"You _thought?_ You_ thought_, did you? You thought the captain would not mind if you disrupted his morning walk? Would not mind that you cluttered his deck with foul lines that have no place by the wheel of a ship?"

Walters looked helplessly up at the captain, and Bush, usually the first to give a man a dressing down, felt a wave of pity for the lad. Hornblower had been in a peak since he woke up, and Bush suspected that his mood rather was _because_ he'd woken up. He had clearly slept better last night with Bush in his cabin than he had that entire weak, and it would be difficult for any man, let alone Hornblower, to acknowledge such a dependency.

Hornblower glared at the hand a full minute, then he turned away in apparent exasperation. "Do your mending amidships, Mr. Walters, and I'll thank you to trouble me with excuses no more!"

Walters positively jumped to get out of Hornblower's line of sight, and then he began dragging the spool of cord as best he could to the rail, so he could push it onto the lower deck where it would be out of the way. The large bundle had to weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds, and it was positively painful to watch the wiry lad push and pull the mass slowly across the planking. When Bush could take it no more he ordered Hewitt up from the lower deck to help in the endeavor. It had been Bush who had suggested they let that day be a make-and-mend day, what with the wind dead still. They had replaced the cracked foremast at Plymouth, but not all the sails had been fully patched. None had holes, to be sure, but many were fraying, and the grommets through which the reef lines ran were loose. Walter's situation was therefore Bush's fault in more ways than one.

The movement of the cordage over the polished deck was infinitely faster with two men doing the work of one; yet even as this tension was resolved, Bush witnessed another unfraying, for when Hornblower was done with his morning walk, he began laying into the young gentlemen.

"Mr. Foreman! It there reasonable explanation for why I have not seen you at the masthead for more than ten minutes in the last three days?"

"Sir?"

"Did I not order the mast to be double manned and on half watches?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"But you thought you young gentlemen were exempt?"

"Well—"

"Well what?"

"Well, I didn't know—"

"Indeed you did not, Mr. Foreman. It appears, in fact, that you know very little in general. I want one of you aloft on every half watch! Is that understood?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush would have laughed any other day at Foreman's discomfiture, but he could not now.

By two bells in the afternoon watch the captain had targeted nearly everyone on the ship for a verbal thrashing, and Bush had become a glaring exception. Hornblower would not even look at him, and Bush feared what that might mean. The young gentlemen, intuiting that he had confronted the captain on his sleeplessness based on that now three days old wardroom conversation, clearly felt Bush was in imminent danger. He caught three separate worried and pitying looks from Young and Orrock, and the irritation born from those looks was almost enough to sweep away his own uneasiness. Almost, but not quite.

It was fair to say that the whole ship breathed a sigh of relief when Cheeseman called down from the mast, "Deck there! Sail to windward!"

The change in Hornblower was immediate. His shoulders untensed, and his attention focused off the port side at the horizon line. "How many masts? What size?"

It was the ordinary seaman, a more experienced topman, who responded, "Three masts, sir, but small. No royals on 'er. I think I see another be'ind 'er . . ."

"Thank you, Mr. Doyle! And I'll thank you to record as many details as possible!" He turned to Bush for the first time that day, "Mr. Bush, let out full sail and take us northeast a point east." Bush immediately went about directing the maneuver. The mending of the sails had been halted as soon as they began feeling a southwest breeze, so there was thankfully no mollying required. He could vaguely hear Hornblower talking with Prowse behind him, no doubt establishing coordinates.

Doyle called down again from the mast, "Two ships for sure, sir! The first looks like a merchant ship, but I can't make out the second yet! Three masts, but she doesn't have all her sail out!"

Hornblower made no acknowledgement, but Bush was certain he had heard. It wasn't until they were hauling fast, the wind nearly abaft, that the captain called up for more details.

"Masthead! What do you see?"

"They're keeping their course, sir! And we have the reach, so they're fading now!"

"Could you recognize the second sail before we shifted?"

"No, sir. But if I had to guess I'd say it was a frigate!"

Hornblower grunted. Then he yelled up again, "Mr. Cheeseman?"

"I agree, sir!" That response was a bit too glib for Bush to trust it, and he could see by the downturn of Hornblower's mouth that he thought so as well.

"You'll be taking lessons from Mr. Doyle, Mr. Cheeseman. A topman who doesn't know his ships is of no use to anyone!"

Ordinarily the captain left such censures to his first lieutenant, but he was most certainly still in a bad temper. Perhaps it was for the best that he had so many targets for his anger.

The mood on the ship remained tense even when the sails completely left their view, and Hornblower and Prowse were the only men aboard who seemed unsurprised when sails were spotted before them some six hours later, just at sunset.

"It's a squadron, sir!" It was Orrock aloft now, along with that rascal, Charles.

Bush waited expectantly for some further orders, but none came. They approached at full speed, and soon even Bush could see the sails through his telescope. There were four of them, and they could only be British ships. One ship of the line, one frigate, and two fifth rates. It was a hunting party, really, and Bush thought he understood, finally, what their orders must be. They were seeking out French ships and relaying their coordinates to bigger squadrons. Perhaps there was even a French convoy en route!

"Get aloft, Mr. Foreman! You have some signals to raise!" Hornblower order seemed to confirm Bush's guess. As soon as Foreman and Orrock switched places, it became clear that he was correct. "Mr. Foreman! You will relay these coordinates!" And so saying Hornblower listed the coordinates of that first sail sighting. He followed it with the heading of those two ships.

The towering ship of the line—the _Adeline_-confirmed the coordinates, and then the entire squadron moved off, with no further information exchanged. Hornblower nodded once in satisfaction, and then set the _Hotspur_ running west, not quite against the wind.

After an hour of slow sailing on calm water Bush finally accepted that there was to be no battle that day. No real excitement at all, in fact.

He looked over at the captain.

They neither of them had had their dinner, and they neither of them had broached the subject of sleeping arrangements, so that it hung in the quiet air like a chain around Bush's neck. He would let that weight rest a while long.

With a tip of his hat to Hornblower he went below to catch whatever leftovers he could from the wardroom.

oooooo

An hour and a half later, two bells into the first watch, he made his way to the captain's cabin.

"Come in," Hornblower called out at his hesitant knock.

Bush entered, to be met with Hornblower's piercing dark eyes. He stepped in only far enough to close the door behind him and then stood awkwardly stiff while the captain inspected him. Hornblower was staring intently, his expression dark and serious, his mind clearly weighing some heavy choice. Yet he spoke not a word, just fixed his eyes first on Bush's own blue orbs, and then wandered his gaze over the rest of his lieutenant's broad frame. Bush felt as if his his very soul was being judged, and was certain that he would be felt wanting. There was very little that met with Hornblower's satisfaction in general, and very little to recommend his first lieutenant in particular. This Bush felt with certainty, considering the way he had arguably given insult the night before with his brash acts of comfort. Emotions were not meant to be shared between men; between officers.

Yet at length it was clear that Bush had misjudged the situation, for Hornblower still voiced no objection. After five minutes of silent staring had passed, he finally turned away from Bush and made for his cot. It was as if he had decided to pretend that Bush was not there. He stripped himself of his uniform one slow article at a time, in full view of his friend, and then, wearing only his drawers, he pulled his curtains and stepped into bed.

Bush remained immobile throughout this demonstration, afraid to disrupt whatever decision Hornblower had clearly come to. This was a more difficult exercise than one might think, for the captain was clearly pained by the motions required to remove his frock coat and waistcoat, and Bush wanted nothing more than to help him. Bush found himself nye wincing in sympathy with each twinge of Hornblower's back, and his throat began constricting of its own volition. When Hornblower finally closed his curtains, settling on to his stomach in a pretense of slumber, Bush finally forced himself to move. He, like Hornblower before him, slowly removed his uniform, placing the folded pieces on the small dining table. Then he carefully lay down on the cot in the corner, which he had not even noticed until after Hornblower's inspection. That brought him the only smile of the evening; Doughty at least had wanted Bush to continue his sleeping arrangements, and that was small comfort.

Bush closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

oooooo

Bush was ordinarily a heavy sleeper. You had to be, on a ship, if you wanted to get any rest, for even if you had a wall separating you from the next man, it was a thin wall indeed. He was surprised therefore to awaken suddenly to a dark cabin. He had no way of knowing the time in the blackness around him, but he could tell by the scratchiness of his eyes, and by that very darkness, that he should still be asleep. Why the devil was he awake?

A soft cry echoed across the cabin.

Bush's head shot up. That had sounded like-

He heard a rustling, as of someone tossing over in their cot. Then a whimper. That settled it. Bush rolled on to his side and pushed himself sluggishly to his feet. The deck was hard under his bare feet, but it was a comforting texture in comparison to the empty air his arms groped in the darkness. He knocked his hip on the table and nearly tripped over a chair before he made it to the captain's curtain, even knowing his heading. Yet the pain in his hip was nothing to the pain in his chest at each further sound emitted from Hornblowers corner, so Bush thought nothing of it. When he reached that shielded bed he pulled the curtain back in an anxious rush, certain he would find the captain dying in his sleep.

Hornblower was not dying, but he was indeed in a state. He'd twisted himself in his blankets so that they resembled a knot more then coverings, and he had tossed onto his side, such that his back must be rubbing painfully against the wall. Bush's squinting eyes, now adjusted to the blackness that surrounded them, could just make out the glisten off the sweat coating Hornblower's exposed skin. His every inhalation and exhalation was cuttingly loud in the quiet night, and it seemed it was an effort for him to draw each breath. It took no great intuitive leap to guess that Hornblower was in the midst of a nightmare.

Bush was suddenly awkward. What did a person do in such a situation? If he were a parent, he would wake Hornblower, comfort him. If he were one of the young gentleman, he would go back to his bed and pretend he had heard nothing. If he were Doughty, he would-what _would_ Doughty do?

Another cry escaped Hornblower's lips.

Like the sounds Hornblower had emitted when Doughty and Wallis had cleaned his wounds that first night off the _Terre Haute,_ the weak mewl cut Bush to the core. His decision was made; he extended his arm tentatively and gently shook Hornblower's shoulder. Hornblower moaned, but did not wake. Nerving himself, Bush put more force behind his arm. He shook again. And again. Bush had to place his hands on both of Hornblower's shoulders and give him a violent tug to produce the response he desired, and then Hornblower started so swiftly from the hand that had woken him that he banged his back audibly against the wall.

Bush stood frozen in place, feeling completely out of his depth. The only sound in the room now was Hornblower's harsh breaths, and it was only as those rapid inhalations slowed into a regular rhythm that Bush could begin to contemplate action. He could not see the captain's face, for the weak starlight peaking through the now opened curtain did not reach the far wall. He could not determine, therefore, whether Hornblower was angry, or embarrassed, or in pain—could not determine even whether Hornblower was aware of him. Not a word was spoken in those dead minutes, and Bush would tie himself to the gratings before he broke the silence. No. He would say nothing.

And with this course of action laid in, another thought came to Bush. If Hornblower would object to Bush speaking, he would certainly object to any other interference. Bush was rather certain that he was the worst person in the world to handle this situation, and it was entirely likely any move he made would do more harm than good. That could only be the truth, for Bush was a simple officer, not a doctor. He gave up on his struggle; helping Hornblower in that moment was a task too momentous for Bush. Instead he did what he would never do in a real battle. He retreated.

He took a step away from the cot, and when he sensed movement from Hornblower in response, he turned fully away, so as to give the captain his privacy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to calm his nerves, then padded softly across the cabin back to his own cot. He slipped under his blankets, shivering out of nervousness rather than cold.

From where he lay on his stiff bed, he could hear Hornblower shift back and forth in his own cot, no doubt attempting to fall back asleep. Bush did not think he would be successful; it was certain that Bush himself would get no further rest that night, and Bush was a much heavier sleeper than his friend.

So they both lay there, equally restless, equally silent, and equally pained.

oooooo

"Sir? Is there something-"

"Carry on."

Bush turned away and left the quarterdeck as fast as he could without giving insult. That was the fourth time that morning he had caught Hornblower staring at him. At first he had assumed the captain was angry for the night's interruption, and was simply unable to contain his glares when Bush had his back turned. But when Bush had surprised Hornblower by moving swiftly to reprimand a hand, Bush had caught the look full on. It wasn't anger in Hornblower's eyes, it was shame. Embarrassment. Even a touch of hurt. It took the second interrupted stare for Bush to understand that Hornblower was not embarrassed on Bush's behalf, but for his own person. That would have been obvious to anyone but Bush, perhaps, but Bush thought too much of Hornblower to appreciate that such a man could feel intimidated by his lieutenant. It wasn't until the third look that Bush became aware of a certain . . . expectation in the captain's air; as if he was waiting for the hanger's noose to pull taught—waiting for Bush to raise the subject of his nightmare in conversation and condemn him a coward.

At the fourth look Bush could remain silent no longer, but Hornblower clearly was not in a mood for speech. It was irksome in the extreme to be so obviously the source of the captain's discomfort and yet be so unable to do anything about it. Bush again retreated, climbing down to the main deck; perhaps distance would help.

The only thing that would _really_ distract them all, however, was a battle.

"Deck there!"

That was Walters at the mast, his voice surprisingly loud for a kid his size. Bush waited expectantly for the report.

"Sail to windward!"

It was as if fate had read Bush's mind! Bush ran back to the ladder and climbed to the quarterdeck as fast as any trained sailor. He was at the captain's side almost before Hornblower could respond, so that the captain's bellow, pitched to carry, reverberated through his ear.

"What do you make of her, Mr. Walters?"

"She's a sloop, sir! S'only got a half mizzen!"

Bush couldn't contain his excitement, "Shall I run up and confirm, sir?" Cheeseman was pairing Walters at the mast, and God knew whether that gentlemanwould ever be able to distinguish a waterhoy from a 3rd rate!

Hornblower either had greater faith in the boy, or was not in a mood to ease Bush's curiosity. He ignored his first lieutenant's request and shouted back up, "Mr. Cheeseman, your report?"

It seemed to Bush that there was an audible sigh of exasperation from the crew at this order, and then Cheeseman's unimpressive voice echoed down to the deck.

"Walters is right, sir! It looks like a sloop! Three masts, but nothing above ta'gallants!"

Bush rolled his eyes, uncaring that he might be observed. Cheeseman was saying nothing that Walters hadn't already told them when he called the approaching ship a sloop with a short mizzen. Yet Hornblower was nodding, as if this was valuable information!

The captain spoke evenly to the assembled officers. "Mr. Prowse. I'll thank you to take note of our time and position. Mr. Cargill, set us a course a point north of east."

Bush had to stop himself from frowning. Hornblower had divulged nothing of his orders, but it seemed clear to Bush at this set of course that they were rendezvousing with another squadron—perhaps the same squadron as yesterday. If it was truly just a sloop, then why not have the _Hotspur _take it on alone? They were quite well equipped for such an action. It was galling in the extreme to have to turn tail and let others do the fighting. Bush forced himself to swallow his resentment. Looking to Hornblower for permission, he began bellowing orders to the men. There was some grumbling as the hands came to the same realization as Bush had, but they knew better than to disobey the lieutenant.

Hornblower went below as soon as the yards were swung round, and he stayed there until the middle of the afternoon watch, when another sail came in sight. It was a different squadron, Bush saw when they drew near. No doubt he would have been able to infer that it would be from their course that morning if his trigonometry were better. It was no surprise, however, that Hornblower had known their exact position, even without consulting a chart; the man was a walking abacus.

Flags ran up the _Hotspur_'s halyard in quick succession at the captain's order, and Bush looked on with poorly disguised irritation as the small collection of ships before him unfurled their sails and made for the _Hotspur_'s wake.

So this was to be their duty. Playing unrewarded scout to the greedy captains of prize hungry ships of the line. Was this their punishment for the disaster of Hornblower's kidnapping?

It never occurred to Bush that Cornwallis might give them this task thinking they would join the squadrons, and that it was Hornblower himself who was scorning the rewards.

oooooo

Bush's irritation dogged him through the evening and to his cot. It was enough to distract him from his trepidation of approaching the captain's cabin. It was enough, even, to see him through Hornblower's inspection—indeed, it was all he could do not to glare balefully back. This vague irritation even lingered in his sleep. Perhaps it was this residual anger that gave him courage, or perhaps it was merely fatigue. In any case, it was certain that when he was roused unexpectedly from his sleep for the second night in a row, he did not do as he had done previously. He rose, certainly—he approached Hornblower's bed with the same clumsiness, to be sure. But when it came to rousing the captain, he did not hesitate.

He grabbed Hornblower's near shoulder and gave it a heady shake, and when Hornblower flinched violently awake, Bush's hand held it's grip, so that Hornblower could not hurt himself as he moved away.

"Sir." He said sternly to the now still figure.

"Sir. It's Bush. You're on the _Hotspur_."

Hornblower remained still for a long moment beneath Bush's hand. Then he sat up slowly and turned, so that Bush could see his face. That was another distinction from the previous night—there must have been clouds the day before, because now bright moonlight shown across the cabin to reflect off of Hornblower's sweaty skin. And that light showed Bush what he wished he'd been able to discern before: Hornblower was terrified. His entire expression was frozen in a rictus of panicked horror, and there was a tremor running through his limbs.

Bush, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, acted on instinct. He angled his hip so that he could sit on the edge of the cot, and with both hands he reached out and pulled Hornblower into a tight hug. His arms pulled against the captain's back irregardless of injuries, and his neck rested over Hornblower's shoulder. His mother had done this for him when he was a child—held him close when he woke from a bad nightmare, telling him everything would be alright. He could only hope that his embrace would offer Hornblower the same comfort that his mother's had.

Hornblower struggled for a moment in Bush's hold, as if convinced Bush meant him harm, but then he went still. Bush murmured soft reassurances, meaningless words neither of them would ever recall, but words soothing in their pitch and cadence. Minutes passed. More. Hornblower had surely come to himself, for he was neither asleep, nor struggling, yet he made no move to separate himself from his lieutenant; offered no angry recriminations. It seemed for the first time that he was content with Bush's intercession, and Bush could not contain the flutter of pleasure that this acceptance evoked in him. He smiled, unseen by Hornblower.

Then, emboldened to a further decision, he loosed his arms from around the captain, and then removed them completely. Gripping the wooden edge of the cot, he swung his legs fully up and onto the lumpy bedding. Hornblower had issued a muted sound of protest at the initial withdrawal, but in a matter of seconds Bush had returned his hands to their former position, now with their bodies pressing even closer and more fully together.

For a brief moment they silently enjoyed this renewed proximity, but Hornblower inevitably recognized the mistake of Bush's realignment before Bush himself was aware of it. Laying on their sides, face to face, meant they could not rest their faces over each other's shoulders, and it required more space than the small cot could provide. Their embrace was therefore rather uncomfortable—too uncomfortable to make sleep possible.

Yet it required little of Hornblower's intellectual resources to resolve a solution. He rolled over so that his back was to Bush, thus allowing their bodies to align one curled against the other. This was far better, all around, for it meant Hornblower's tender back was cushioned against Bush's chest, and it meant they could continue this no doubt inappropriate contact without looking into one another's faces, which would likely spoil the fragile mood entirely. Bush sighed audibly in contentment. Perhaps Hornblower was not the only man in need of comfort aboard the _Hotspur_, just the one least sure of how to obtain it. Bush fell asleep almost immediately, and though he did not know it, Hornblower quickly followed


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Warning-this is the one chapter in this thing that may not be T.**

**Part XI** (4200 words, R)

DDDDDDDDDD

Doughty was met with a rather compromising tableau when he came to wake the captain that morning. He had given a peremptory knock, expecting, as had become usual, Hornblower's growled acknowledgement, only to be met with silence. The hollow rapping of his knuckles on the captain's door had been rather soft, to be sure, but Hornblower's continued sleeplessness tended to make the volume irrelevant. Was it possible that the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed had been more successful than his own? That would be a blessing. If the captain went without sleep much longer, Doughty would be mending more than worn trousers-he'd be piecing together Hornblower himself!

Hope rose in Doughty's chest like a yardarm rigged to the capstan, so that he smiled as he entered the cabin.

"Sir?" He called into the quiet peace, "I have your coffee, sir, if you'll take it." There was a rustling behind the curtain that shielded the captain's cot from sight, and Doughty shot a glance behind him, to where he'd set up Lieutenant Bush's cot, to see if the man had already departed. It seemed he had. The Lieutenant was a good officer, who took his duties to heart, but his repeated early departures were beginning to give Doughty the impression that his help with the captain truly was regarded as one duty among many. Doughty had hoped there was more to it than that.

"Sir?"

The rustling came again, and Doughty heard a grunt. A leg appeared beneath the curtain, and another. Then a deep voice echoed his own: "Sir? It must be four bells, sir."

That was strange. Hornblower's voice had never been quite so deep. In the next moment the curtain was pushed aside, revealing the very lieutenant Doughty's thoughts had been straying to. To Doughty it seemed almost as if Bush materialized out of the very cabin walls, and the servant all but gaped at the man. Doughty was too well trained to be fully rude, but the origin of his momentary hope seemed to echo in his mind. He had thought that perhaps 'the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed' had been more successful than his own; it appeared to be true in more ways than one!

"S-sir," he managed to stumble out.

Bush hardly spared him a look, making a line for the table. His clothes, it seemed, were stowed on the seat of the far chair, hidden from Doughty's immediate sight. He still wore his drawers and linen shirt, of course, but he looked quite different without the blue garb that usually defined him. No doubt he looked even stranger still with his shirt off as well, but it seemed only the captain was to know the truth of that. It was none of Doughty's business anyway. Yet observant bystander that he was, he could not help taking in the view before him. The lieutenant was a well-formed man, with evident muscles under the thin linen, and it was apparent from the hue of his legs that his olive complexion was not the result of exposure to the sun alone. The uniform frock coat made him look slimmer, leaner, and it was interesting to Doughty that the crew, who to a man feared Bush's wrath, did so when only seeing half his muscle. Imagine if the lieutenant ever truly bared his arms at a misbehaving hand!

Bush's eyes strayed Doughty's way only once fully clothed, and by then Doughy was better prepared to return his nod. There was little that needed to be spoken between them, and at that particular junction no words would likely have sufficed. They nodded at one another instead. A simple acknowledgement of the efforts each had made on behalf the nexus that bound them together-Hornblower. It seemed Doughty had not misjudged the Lieutenant after all.

When Bush departed, the steward was left with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and a sleepy captain on his plate. At the click of the cabin door Hornblower had begun to slowly rise, but he was clearly still sleep fuddled, for his limbs were clumsy and his eyelids blinked sluggishly. It was as if, once successful in finding sleep, his body's overwhelming fatigue had finally asserted itself, demanding that the captain compensate for days of sleeplessness with one long slumber. Hornblower no doubt hated the sensation, but Doughty was glad for it.

"Coffee, sir?" he offered again, and Hornblower stumbled over to the table, drawn to the familiar aroma like a seaman to grog.

"Thank you, Doughty," he rasped as he extended his hand for the proffered cup. "What's for breakfast?"

Even facing Hornblower in clear view, Doughty could not contain his smile. Lieutenant Bush really was a remarkable man.

BBBBBBBBBB

It was two days after this sleeping arrangement began that they spotted their third French ship. Hornblower had been on deck since midway through the second watch, so Bush was not surprised to see him blinking rapidly as he moved his eye in and out of his telescope. Two nights of improved sleep could not fully compensate for a week of sleeplessness.

It was Foreman at the mast, and for once both Hornblower and Bush could take the report that came down from the gentleman with equal weight to that which came from the seaman that paired him. Two sloops, probably merchants—another nice catch for the Hotspur that she would gallingly have to let by. But this time Bush was expecting Hornblower's inevitable response, and so his anger had no time to take root. comes on deck for lookout's report, then leaves Bush to change course for rendezvous.

"I'll thank you to turn us about, Mr. Bush, and set a heading for due north."

"Aye aye, sir." Bush turned smartly on his heal to shout the relevant orders, yet just as he sucked in a deep gust of air to bellow his orders, another string of words came form the captain.

"Mr. Bush. You have the deck. I'm going below."

Bush swung his head around in undisguised surprise. "Aye aye, sir," he managed to force out, quite bereft of that air he had just inhaled. It was too unexpected a compliment for him to be anything other than surprised, for Hornblower was not even staying to see the maneuvers completed. No, he was leaving it all to Bush. It wasn't until Hornblower had turned and nearly disappeared down the companion that Bush's face responded to the glowing warmth that had sprouted in his stomach, but when his features caught up with his emotions, Bush found himself grinning.

Two minutes of shouting orders across the deck and watching the response ameliorated his pleasure.

"Charles! What the devil are you doing, man?" Bush's voice was sharp even in the wind.

"I'm just standin' 'ere, _sir_," The word came out as an insult, slurred and condescending. Charles had been with the group of men ordered to the capstan to raise the yards, while another group manned the braces to swing them round. Except instead of putting his back into pushing against his spoke of the giant wheel, he was simply standing at his station, arms limply swung over the wooden handle before him. He was single handedly stopping the entire maneuver!

"God damn your eyes! Either get to work or stand elsewhere! If you want to dawdle, you can dawdle on the gratings!"

Bush bellowed loud enough to be heard by the entire deck, but Charles was immobile.

"Why's we gotta go runnin' when its only a wee liddle sloop we's got in our sights! I want my prize money!" Charles glowered nearly as well as Bush, but he should have known better than to expect his lieutenant to be cowed.

In two long strides Bush was beside the errant hand, his voice low, but still audible to the surrounding men, "Listen here, you dim-witted knave! Aboard this ship you have the right to do what you're told. Nothing else. You do what I say or I bend you over the captain's daughter. Unless you think you can stop me?"

Bush's face held an almost macabre smile, and, slimming uniform or no, not a man aboard would have thought to cross the lieutenant at that moment. Charles, it seemed, was beyond all sense of self-preservation. Beyond all reason, even. He glared back at Bush, and though he said nothing, he crossed his arms across his chest in stolid defiance.

Bush shook his head in disgust. "Mr. Wise?" The grey haired bosun was ready at the call. "I'll thank you to take Mr. Whitford below, and stand a guard on him. We'll deal with him when we've settled our course."

Once the obstruction was removed, setting course took all of fifteen minutes, leaving Bush all to soon with the task of 'dealing with' Mr. Charles Whitford. That should have been a straight-forward matter. Whitford's crime was a lash-worthy offense-Bush's responsibility was to inform the captain and call all hands to witness punishment. But . . . But the captain had been whipped nearly to death only two weeks previously . . . to force him to witness such a thing on the deck of his own ship . . . it was unthinkable. Unpardonable if Bush should be the one to arrange it. No. It could not come to that.

Mr. Wise was at his side when he finally set his mental course as straight as the Hotspur's.

"Mr. Wise, send for one of your mates and have him meet me—where was is it that you've put Whitford?"

"In the hold, sir. With the grain stores."

"Ah. Very well; you and your mate meet me in the hold presently, with a cat."

Wise, anxious to inflict any pain he was allowed, did not question Bush's breach of protocol. No doubt Mr. Prowse or Cargill would. Bush went below without glancing towards the wheel.

oooooo

Bush approached the captain's cabin with a heavy heart. Doughty had given no indication as to the subject of this summons, but there was a certain . . . flatness to the stewards voice which told Bush this was not the cordial invitation of the night before. After what he had done with Whitford just hours before, he was right to be nervous.

He knocked, and at Hornblower's terse command entered. Hornblower was looking out his stern window, and Bush could read nothing in his stance, except a tenseness in the shoulders.

"Sir?" Bush ventured.

Hornblower remained silent. Bush shifted the weight between his feet. It was agony, this standing a waiting, as if he were being fitted for a noose. Then, just as Bush was summoning his strength to break the uncomfortable muteness between them, damn the consequences, Hornblower finally spoke, as if he'd been waiting for that very sign of impatience to drop the scaffolding beneath Bush's feet.

"There was a flogging this afternoon, while I was in my cabin."

Bush's heart sank, and he waited for his captain's anchor to fall. But Hornblower didn't continue, and Bush was forced to fill the silence. "Yes, sir."

"fifteen lashes for dereliction of duty and putting the ship at risk."

"Yes, sir."

"And I was not informed." It was not a question.

"Sir, I-"

"Why was I not informed?" Finally Hornblower turned to face Bush, and Bush immediately wished he had not. Hornblower's face was flushed with anger, but it went beyond anger. His eyes were cold and his mouth straight and expressionless. He looked a man on the brink of a decision and succumbing to a grievous inner turmoil. Like this meeting was of much greater import than Bush could ever have appreciated.

"Sir, I didn't think you needed to watch that, sir. It makes no difference to the crew, and does you no good. I thought-"

"You thought?" Hornblower's raised eyebrow was as condemning as his tone.

"I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize you-"

"Is it common practice for first lieutenants to hide things from their captains?"

Bush could only answer, "No, sir."

"Is it common practice for first lieutenants to coddle their captains?"

"No, sir."

"Then I can only assume there is something about me in particular that has engendered this behavior?"

Bush remained silent as Hornblower's dark eyes bore into his.

Suddenly Hornblower was yelling, or it seemed to Bush that he was yelling, the intensity of his voice was so all-consuming. It was as if Hornblower could physically burn Bush with his words, and indeed, Bush felt each syllable carve into his heart as it was uttered.

"I wish to God that I had died, Mr. Bush! I wish to God that the sharks had torn me to pieces as I dangled behind that damn brig with the water scoring my back! I wish the infection had stolen my last strength! I wish the fever had burned me into hell! Better to die than to lose command of my ship!" Hornblower paused to steal a breath, and as he did so his features twisted into an expression of horribly pained despair. "What do you want from me, Bush? I have already lost command of my body. I have lost command of my emotions. And you and Doughty, watching me each night, have neatly stripped me of my privacy! I cannot even find solitude in sleep, for there my memories are a punishment far worse than sandy eyes. All I have left is my command, and soon I will not even have that! So I ask you, what do you want from me?"

For the first time Bush was forced to consider that perhaps he and Doughty had been wrong. Perhaps in trying to help the captain they had done more harm than good. Bush felt all the color drain from his face, and he found himself in his own private despair, even as Hornblower wallowed in another. He had thought that what Hornblower needed was comfort, and companionship, and time. He had thought that by proving the crew's love, no _his_ love, for the captain, he could convince Hornblower of his self-worth. It was only at this moment that it dawned on Bush that a man of Hornblower's logic and reserve would of course feel any loss of authority over himself far more keenly than physical and emotional pain. What Hornblower needed wasn't love, it was control.

But that wasn't right. Bush had been sleeping in Hornblower's cabin for almost a week now, and the captain quite obviously slept better when they were together. Bush could not being himself to believe that Hornblower resented his interference that much. It didn't tally. No, ultimately Hornblower was frustrated most with Hornblower, and in that self-hatred he had isolated himself in mind if not in body. But the captain _wasn't_ alone, dammit! He wasn't alone, and he would never _be_ alone, not where it mattered.

Bush stepped forward until he was uncomfortably close to Hornblower, near enough that the man's eyebrow's crunched in misapprehension. Then he gripped both of Hornblower's shoulders in his calloused hands and said, "You have more than your command, sir. You have_ me_." And as the words left his mouth, Bush leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hornblower's lips. He had not realized until that moment what his body and heart had been telling him for the past fortnight. He had not realized until his mouth was pressed roughly to his captain's that he was in love with Hornblower.

But even as this epiphany came upon him—even as Bush's cheek pressed harshly against his friend's, Bush was brought to another realization. Hornblower's lips were hard and unyielding beneath his. Unwilling. The captain did not want this, did not ask for this, maybe even detested this. He pulled back.

But as soon as his lips left Hornblower's he felt a fist grip his jacket lapel and tug it forward, thrusting his face back into its former position.

It was Bush who froze now, uncertain in this new situation. He looked into Hornblower's eyes, just inches from his own, and they were dark as the sea on a moonless night. Angry, needy, bleak, and fathomless. Bush wrapped his hands around Hornblower's neck and pressed their faces together, even as Hornblower pulled their bodies together with a tug on Bush's lapel. Their noses mashed one against the other as they twisted from side to side, and there was the click of teeth as their mouths opened and closed. Bush felt a wave of heat from his mouth down to his groin and he gripped his captain to him all the harder. It was as if a hundred half remembered dreams and stolen glances had suddenly become real, and Bush feared he would wake up and find himself alone at any moment.

Then he felt himself half dragged, half pushed several feet to his left and his back came in contact with a wall. A hand pawed at his jacket and he realized Hornblower must be working at the buttons. As he did in everything, Bush followed his captain's lead. Hornblower's skillful fingers made quick work of the clasps, and Bush had to pause in his own fumbling to let his coat drop from his shoulders. Then his own fingers were slipping off the last gold buttons beneath Hornblower's neck, and roughly pulling the jacket off of those bony shoulders. Hornblower let out a muffled cry and stiffened. His teeth clenched, taking Bush's lip between them as they did. Bush immediately recognized his error and pulled the rest of the jacket off with as much gentleness as he was capable. As his lip was released, he softly kissed Hornblower's cheek in apology, and kept kissing in butterfly-light landings, moving his lips to touch every part of the melancholy face he'd long ago memorized. He wanted to clutch at Hornblower's back and pull him tight by the shoulders, but he would have to settle for gripping his captain's slim waist and tense neck. And dammit but their uniforms delayed him doing even that, for they still had their waistcoats and linen shirts between them, not to mention britches!

Hornblower, relaxing as the sudden pain eased, must have come to the same realization, for they both started on each other's waistcoat buttons at the same moment, their hands nearly colliding. When those were removed Bush thought to pull off his shirt, but Hornblower stopped him by reaching instead for Bush's belt. Bush, fire now running through his every extremity, was feeling unsteady on his feet, and when Hornblower began pulling at the buttons to his breeches, he had to consciously force himself to stand firm. It required even greater concentration to get his big fingers, more accustomed to rope lines than clothing, to reciprocate with Hornblower's breeches.

They never did get their clothes fully off.

Hornblower pushed down on Bush's shoulders, and they both sank to the cabin floor, Bush using the wall at his back to brace them. Then Hornblower was on top of him, and Bush gripped the captain by the waist to steady him. Hornblower did not seem satisfied with Bush's hand hold, however, it being felt through the linen shirt he still wore, and he pulled the confining fabric out from under Bush's fingers to expose the bare skin of his torso. Bush gladly accepted the change, and, thinking better of it, pulled his own shirt up as well. Hornblower was too weak to prop himself fully with his arms, so he lay flush with Bush, and now they were skin to skin at their stomachs.

Hornblower let out a shuddering breath of satisfaction at this development, and the warm air brushed against Bush's ear. Another exhalation blew by, and it seemed to Bush that each breath was like the smoke on the gun deck in the heat of battle, mingled with the sweet ocean spray at the bowsprit of the _Hotspur._ Bush yearned to turn that gently swirling smoke into the hot compression of cannon fire. He pulled Hornblower's loosened breeches down to his thighs, his underthings with them, leaving the captain as naked and exposed as he'd been under the washdeck pump on the _Renown_. Bush then did the same with his own breeches, as the captain seemed preoccupied with running his hands over the muscles of Bush's chest and shoulders. This was entirely to Bush's advantage, as Hornblower's hands were every bit as skillful in this endeavor as they were in plotting charts and playing whist. They were both _hard_, Bush was aware, and that was not a surprise. Despite the apparent lack of stimulation, the combination of deprivation, the sudden onset of their passion, and their mutual desire had heightened their sensitivity to even the smallest touch.

Then they were kissing again, and while Bush might wish to hear the quickening of Hornblower's hot breath against his ear, he found the mashing of their mouths against one another equally enjoyable. And when Hornblower began rocking against him, Bush was lost to other sensations. Hornblower slipped his right arm beneath Bush's left shoulder to bind them in their tied anchorage; his left hand continued to roam. He was like a child enraptured by a toy he'd admired in the store front all year only to receive it for his birthday—as if he had to verify that every nook and cranny was as he'd imagined it to be.

Bush was not as curious. He'd seen and admired every inch of Hornblower's body as a matter of happenstance through the course of their now five year acquaintance, and he possessed an excellent memory for such things. Bush had his right hand looped into his captain's hair and his left hand had migrated from Hornblower's waist to his buttocks. He did not probe with these hands—he simply held them steady, exerting a constant pressure with his strong arms to keep them bound together as long as he could. They're legs had naturally arranged themselves so that Hornblower was riding his thigh, while Bush, rocking almost unconsciously in counterpoint to Hornblower, found a thin leg similarly rubbing against him as he moved. The sailor in Bush was aware that this should be an awkward maneuver, like using a ramrod to polish a gun instead of loading it, but it was not uncomfortable. Indeed, it was the height of pleasure, and he savored every moment of it as their movements became more rapid, Hornblower's hands more frantic. It was all he could do to maintain his silence when they reached their blinding climax, with Hornblower's nails digging into his shoulder and a staccato of harsh breaths pounding against his ear far louder than the explosions of a full broadside of the _Hotspur_'s nine-pound guns.

And then, over almost as quickly as it had begun, Hornblower sagged in release against Bush, languid and placid. Bush was similarly effected, but he did not loosen his hold; he wanted this moment to last as long in reality as it surely would in his memory.

He did not know how long they lay there together. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. Bush only knew that when Hornblower finally moved, it was as if a a bright lantern had suddenly dimmed. The captain pushed himself off of Bush and on to his back, issuing a hiss as his tender scars contacted the polished wood. The pain must have given him the adrenaline necessary to continue, however, for he was almost instantly on his feet. He did not spare Bush a glance as he slipped in to the head to clean himself up.

Bush, for his part, lay as he'd been. To get up would be to acknowledge that the moment was over, and he did not want it to be over. He remained sprawled on the floor until he heard the door to the head latch open again, and then, not allowing himself to look in that direction, he got to his feet and pulled up his britches. Without a word exchanged he went to the head in Hornblower's shadow and cleaned himself off. They were silent still as they picked up and re-buttoned their waistcoats, and Bush heard nothing but the rustling of wool fabric as he slipped on his jacket. He would not speak until Hornblower spoke—he simply was not capable of it at that moment—and Hornblower was clearly not inclined to speak. Bush left without a backward glance; all he needed was tucked safely away in his memory, to be relished and remembered and relived whenever he should desire it.

Later Bush would look back on this passionate tryst and conclude that Hornblower, who had avoided even the most casual contact with anyone since his capture, was simply desperate to be touched. But at that moment all that was important was that his captain wanted to be touched by _him_.


End file.
